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HEART STUDIES. 


BY 

GEACE AGUILAK, 

AUTHOR OF “the •WOMEN OF ISRAEL,” “DATS OF BR0OE,” “ THE MOTHER’S 
RECX>MrENSE,” “ WOMAn’s FRIENDSHIP,” “ VALE OF CEDARS,” 

ETC. ETC. 


NEW YOEK: 

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 

A- 7 

90. 92 & M GRAND STREET. 

1871 . 


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Bjf ITrensff er from 
IS.S.Nava^ Academy 
Aug. 26 1932 


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'TT' 


PEEFACE 


IIaving so recently published The Days of Bruce, I 
feel called upon to offer some explanation of iny rea- 
sons for thus rapidly intruding another volume of the 
writings of Grace Aguilar upon the notice of the public. 

** It is the last;” and if an apology be needed, the 
desire which I feel to see in a collected form the works 
of my beloved child must prove my excuse. 

The principal story in this volume, “ The Perez 
Family,” was written and published so far back as the 
year 1843, but, from circumstances attending its publica- 
tion, is comparatively unknown. Two other stories, 
“ The Edict” and “ The Escape,” have also formed the 
subjects of a small volume. 

As contributions to “ The Book of Beauty,” “ The 
Keepsake,” and “ Friendship’s Offering,” while rela- 
tively under the editorship of the Countess of Blessing- 
ton and Mr. Leitch Kitchie, many of the shorter pieces 
will be recognised, and some others owe their introduc- 
tion to the literary world to Mrs. Newton Crosland 


VI 


PREFACE. 


(Camilla Toulmin) ; to these kind and considerate friends 
my daughter had opportunities during life of expressing 
her grateful thanks. 

The Works of Grace Aguilar are now before the pub- 
lic — the present volume being the conclusion of a series 
in which the delineation of the Character of AYoman 
has been the chief design. The wishes of the author of 
“The Women of Israel” will be fulfilled, should the 
unceasing labours of a life, too early closed, awaken 
sentiments of pure affection, and illustrate by example 
the delights of Home. 

SARAH AGUILAR. 


October ^ 1852 




CONTENTS. 


The Perez Family 

The Stone-cutter’s Boy of Possagno . 

A METE AND YaFEII 

The Fugitive 

’’"^^The Edict: a Tale of 1492 

The Eecape : a Tale of 1755 

Bed Rose Villa 

^Gonzalvo’s Daughter 

The Authoress 

V* IIelon 

Lucy . . 

/ The Spirit’s Entreaty 

\ Idalie 

^ Lady Gresham’s Fete 

! The Group of Sculpture 

The Spirit of Night 

, Rccollections of a Rambler 

“Cast thy Bread upon the Waters”. 
The Triumi'h of Love 


?A(}« 

1 

91 
100 
105 
118 
156 
179 
197 
218 
235 
242 
202 
266 
291 
806 
853 
8 58 
868 
882 




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4 . . A 


HOME SCENES AND HEAHT STUDIES. 


CHAPTER I. 

Leading out of one of those close, melancholy alleys in the 
environs of Liverpool was a small cottage, possessing little 
of comfort or beauty in outward appearance, but much in the 
interior in favour of its inhabitants ; cleanliness and neatness 
were clearly visible, greatly in contradistinction to the neigh- 
bouring dwellings. There were no heaps of dirt and half- 
burnt ashes, no broken or even cracked panes in the brightly 
shining windows, not a grain of unseemly dust or stains either 
on door or ledge, — so that even poverty itself looked respect- 
able. The cottage stood apart from the others, with a good 
piece of ground for a garden, which, stretching from the back, 
led through a narrow lane, to the banks of the Mersey, and 
thus permitted a fresher current of air. The garden was care- 
fully and prettily laid out, and planted with the sweetest 
flowers ; the small parlour and kitchen of the cottage open- 
ed into it, and so, greatly to the disappointment and vexa- 
tion of the gossips of the alley, nothing could be gleaned of 
the sayings and doings of its inmates. Within the cottage 
the same refinement was visible ; the furniture, though old 
and poor, was always clean and neatly arranged. The Mez- 
zuzot (Deut. vi. 9, 20) were carefully secured to every door- 
post, and altogether there was an indescribable something 
pervading the dwelling, that in the very midst of present 
poverty seemed to tell of former and more prosperous days. 

Simeon and Rachel Perez had married with every pros- 
pect of getting on well in the world. Neither were very 
young ; for though they had been many years truly devoted 
to each other, they were prudent, and had waited till mutual 


2 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


industry had removed many of the difficulties and obstaclei 
to their union. All which might have been irksome was per- 
severed in through the strength of this honest, unchanging 
affection ; and when the goal was gained, and they were mar- 
ried, all the period of their mutual labour seemed but as a 
watch in the night, compared to the happiness they then en- 
joyed. 

Simeon aad been for several years foreman to a watch* 
maker, and was remarkably skilful in the business. Rachel 
had been principal assistant to a mantua-maker, and all her 
leisure hours were employed in plaiting straw and various 
fancy works, which greatly increased her little store. Never 
forgetting the end they had in view, their mutual savings 
had so accumulated, that on their marriage, Perez was ena- 
bled to set up a small shop, which, conducted with honesty 
and economy, soon flourished, and every year brought in 
something to lay aside, besides amply providing for their fast- 
increasing family. ^ * v. 

The precepts of their God were obeyed by this worthy 
couple, not only in word but in deed. They proved their 
love for their heavenly Father, not only in their social and 
domestic conduct, but in such acts of charity and kindness, 
that many wondered how they could do so much for others 
without wronging their own. Perez and his wife were, how- 
ever, if possible, yet more industrious and economical after 
their marriage than before, and many a time preferred to 
sacrifice a personal indulgence for the purer pleasure of doing 
good to others; and never did they do so without feeling 
that God blessed them in the deed. 

A painful event calling Perez to London was the first al- 
loy to their happiness. A younger sister of his wife, less pru- 
dent because, perhaps,- possessed of somewhat more personal 
attraction, had won the attentions of a young man who had 
come down to Liverpool, he said, for a week’s pleasure. No 
one knew any thing about Isaac Levison. As a companion, 
Perez himself owned he was very entertaining, but that was 
not quite sufficient to make him a good husband. Assurances 
that he was well able to support a wife and family, witli Pe- 
rez and Rachel (they were not then married), went for noth- 
ing ; they wanted proofs, and these he either could not or 
would not bring ; but in vain they remonstrated. Leah had 
never liked their authority or good example, and in this 
point determined to have her own way. 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


3 


They were married, and left Liverpool to reside in Lon- 
don, and Leah’s communications were too few and far be- 
tween to betray much concerning their circumstances. At 
length came a letter, stating that Leah was a mother, but 
telling also that poverty and privation had stolen upon them. 
Their substance in a few troubled years had made itself 
wings, and flown away when most needed ; and Leah now ap- 
plied for assistance to those very friends whose kindness and 
virtue she had so often treated with contempt. The fact 
was, Levison had embarked all his li'..tle capital (collected 
no one knew how) in an establishment dashing in appearance, 
but wanting the basis of honesty and religion. After seem- 
ing to flourish for a few years, it. of course, failed at last, 
exposing its proprietors to deserved odium and distrust, and 
their families to irretrievable distress. 

For seven years Perez and his wife almost supported Leah 
and her child (secretly indeed, for no one in Liverpool im- 
agined they had need to do so). Leah was still too dear, for 
the faults and follies of her husband, and perhaps her own 
imprudences, to form any subject of conversation with her 
relatives. 

At length Leah wrote that she was ill, very ill. She 
thought tlie hand of death was cn her ; and she feared it for 
her child, her darling Sarah, whom she had striven to preserve 
pure amidst the scenes of misery and sin which she now con- 
fessed but too often neared her dwelling. What would become 
of her ? Who would protect her? How dared she appeal to 
the God of the orphan, when her earthly father yet lived, seem- 
ing to forget there was a God? Perez and his wife perused 
that sad letter together ; but ere it was completed, Rachel had 
sunk in bitter tears upon his bosom, seeking to speak the boon 
vhich was in her heart ; but, though it found no words, Perez 
answered — 

“ You are right, dear wife ; one more will make little dif- 
ference in our household. Providence blessed us with four 
children, and has been pleased to deprive us of one. Sarah 
shall take her place: and in snatching her from the infection 
of vice and shame, may we not ask and hope a blessing? Do 
not weep then, my Rachel ; Leah may not be so ill as she 
thinks. I will go and bring her and her child ; and there may 
be happy days in store for them yet.” 

Perez departed that same night by the mail to London ; 
but prompt as he was. poor Leah’s sufferings were terminated 


4 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


before his arrival. Her death, though in itself a painful 
shock, was less a subject of misery and depression, to a mind 
almost rigid in its notions of integrity and honour as that 
Perez, than the fearful state of wretchedness and shame into 
which Isaac Levison had fallen. Perez soon perceived that 
all hope of effecting a reformation was absolute folly. His 
poor child had been so repeatedly prevented attending school, 
by his intemperate or violent conduct, that she was at length 
excluded. Levison could give no good reason for depriving 
his little girl of these advantages, except that he hated the el- 
ders who were in office ; that he did not see why some should 
be rich and some should be poor, and why the former should 
lord it over the latter. He was as good as they were any 
day, and his daughter should not be browbeaten or governed 
by any one, however she might call herself a lady. To rea- 
son with folly Perez felt was foolishness, and so he contented 
himself with entreating Levison to permit his taking the lit- 
tle Sarah, at least for a time, into his family. Levison ima- 
gined Perez was the same rank as himself, and, therefore, that 
his pride could not be injured by his consenting. Equal in 
hiriJi perhaps they were, but as far removed in their present 
ranks as vice from virtue, dishonesty from truth. 

Perez, however, glad and grateful for having gained his 
point, made no comment on the many muttered remarks of 
his brother-in-law, as to his conferring^ not receiving an ob- 
ligation, by giving his child to the care of her aunt, but hasten- 
ed home, longing to offer the best comfort to his wife’s sor- 
row by placing the rescued Sarah in her arms. And it was a 
comfort, for gradually Rachel traced a hand of love even 
in this affliction ; the loss of her mother under such circum* 
stances, proving perhaps, in the end, a blessing to the child, 
if her father' would but leave her with them. She feared 
that he would not at first j but Perez smiled at the fear 
as foolishness, and it gradually dwindled away ; for years 
passed, and the little Sarah grew from childhood into woman- 
hood, still an inmate of her uncle’s family, almost forgetting 
she had any father but himself. 

But it is not to the unrighteous or the irreligious only 
that misfortunes come. Nay, they may flourish for a time, 
and give no evidence that there is a just and merciful God, 
who ruleth. But even those who have loved and served 
Him through long years of probity and justice, and who, ac- 
cording to frail human perceptions, would look for nothing 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


5 


but favour at His hand, are yet afflicted with many sorrows; 
and our feeble and insufficient wisdom would complain that 
such things are. If this world were all, then indeed we 
might murmur and rebel ; but our God himself has assured 
us, •• There will come a day when He will discern between 
the righteous and the wicked, between those who serve God 
and those who serve Him not.” And it is our part to wait 
patiently for that day, and that better world where that 
word will be fulfilled. 

Perez had now five children. Reuben, his eldest son, 
was full five years older than the rest, a circumstance cf re- 
joicing to Perez, as he hoped his son would supply his place 
to his family, should he be called away before the threescore 
and ten years allotted as the age of man. 

To do all he could towards obtaining this end, Perez 
early associated his son with him in his own business ot 
watchmaking; but too soon, unhappily, the parents discov- 
ered that a heavy grief awaited them, from him to whom 
they had most fondly looked for joy. They had indeed 
striven and prayed to train up their child in the way he 
should go, but it seemed as if his after years would not con- 
firm the sage monarch’s concluding words. Wild, thought- 
less, and headstrong, Reuben, after a very brief trial, deter- 
mined that his father’s business was not according to his 
taste, and he could not follow it. His father’s authority in- 
deed kept him steady for a few years, but it was continued 
rebellion and reproof ; and often and often the father’s hard- 
earned savings were sacrificed for the wild freaks and ex- 
travagance of the son. Perez trembled lest the other mem- 
bers of his family, equally dear, should suffer eventual loss ; 
but there is something in the hearts of Jewish parents to- 
wards an eldest son, which calls imperatively for indulgence 
towards, and concealment of his failings. Again and again 
Perez expended sums much larger than he could conve- 
niently afford, in endeavouring to fix his son in business ac- 
cording to his inclinations ; but no sooner was he apparently 
settled and comfortable, and his really excellent abilities 
fairly drawn forth, than, by negligence or inattention, or some 
graver misdemeanour, he disgusted his employers, and, after a 
lit.le longer trial, was returned on his father’s hands. 

Deeply and bitterly hi.s parents grieved, using every af- 
fectionate argument to convince him of the evil of his ways, 
and bring him back again to the paths of joy. They did 


6 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


not desist, however their efforts and prayers seemed alike 
unanswered ; they did not fail in faith, though often it was 
trembling and faint within them. One hope they had ; Reu- 
ben was not hardened. Often he would repent in tears and 
agony of spirit, and deplore his own ill fate, that he was 
destined to bring misery to parents he so dearly loved. Rut 
be refused to believe that it only needed energy to rouse him- 
self from his folly, for as yet it was scarcely more. He said 
he could not help himself, could not effect any change, and 
therefore made no effort to do so. But hat which grieved 
his parents far more than all else, was his total indifference 
to the religion of his forefathers. His ears, even as his heart 
and mind, were closed to those divine truths his parents had 
so carefully inculcated. He knew his duty too well to betray 
infidelity and indifference in their presence, but they loved 
him too well to be blind to their existence. 

“ What is it to be a Jew,” they heard him once say to 
a companion, “but to be cut off from every honourable and 
manly employment? To be bound, fettered to an obsolete 
belief, which does but cramp our energies, and bind us to 
detestable trade. No wonder we are looked upon with con- 
tempt, believed to be bowed, crushed to the very earth, as 
void of all spirit or energy, only because we have no oppor- 
tunity of showing them.” 

Little did he know the bitter tears these words wrung 
from his poor mother, that no sleep visited his father’s eyes 
that night. Was this an answer to their anxious prayer? 
Yet they trusted still. 

Anxiety and grief did not prevent Perez attending to 
his business ; but either from the many drains upon his lit- 
tle capital, or that trade was just at that time in a very low 
state, his prosperity had begun visibly to decrease. And not 
long afterwards a misfortune occurred productive of much 
more painful affliction than even the loss of property which it so 
seriously involved. A dreadful fire broke out in the neigh- 
bourhood, gaining such an alarming height ere it was discov- 
ered, that assistance was almost useless. Amongst the 
greatest sufferers were Perez and his family. Their happy 
home was entirely consumed, and all the little valuables it 
had contained completely destroyed. Perez gazed on ruin. 
For one brief moment he stood as thunderstricken, but then 
A terrible shriek aroused him. He looked around. He 
thought he Lad seen all whom he loved in safety, but at one 


THE PEEEZ FAMILY. 


7 


glance he saw his little Euth was not there His wife had 
caught a glimpse of the child in a part of the building which 
the flames had not yet i cached, and with that wdld shriek 
had flown to save her. He saw her as she made her way 
through falling rafters and blazing walls ; he made a rush 
forward to join and rescue, or die with her ; but his children 
clung round him in speechless terror ; his friends and neigh- 
bours seconded them, and before he could effectually break 
from them, a loud congratulatory shout proclaimed that the 
daring mother had reached her child. A dozen ladders 
were hurried forward, their bearers all eager to be the first 
to plant the means of effectual escape ; and clasping her Ruth 
closely to her breast, regardless of her increasing weight (for 
terror had rendered the poor child utterly powerless), the 
mother’s step was on the ladder, and a hush fell upon the as- 
sembled hundreds. There was no sound save the roar of the 
devouring element and the play of the engines. The flames 
were just nearing the beam on which the ladder leaned, but 
hope was strong that Rachel would reach the ground ere this 
frail support gave w'ay ; and numbers pressed round, regard- 
less of the suffocating smoke and heat, in the vain hope of 
ipeeding her descent. 

Perez had ceased his struggles the moment his wife ap- 
peared. With chasped hands, and cheeks and lips so blanched, 
as even in that luiid light to startle by their ghastliness, he 
remained, his eyes starting from their sockets in their intense 
and agonized gaze. He saw only his wife and child ; but his 
children, with horror which froze their very blood, could look 
only on the fast-approaching flames. A wild cry of terror was 
bursting from young Joseph, Ruth’s twin brother, but Sarah, 
with instinctive feeling, dreading lest that cry should reach 
his mother’s ears, and awaken her to her danger, caught 
him in her arms, and soothed him into silence. 

Carefully and slowly Rachel descended. She gave no look 
around her. No one knew if she were conscious of her dan- 
ger, which was becoming more and more imminent. Then 
came a smothered groan from all, all save the husband and 
the father. The flame had reached the beam, — it cracked — 
caught — the top of the ladder was wreathed with smoke and 
fire. W as there faltering in her step, or did the frail support 
totter beneath her weight? The half was j>ast, but one- 
third to the ground remained ; fiercer and fiercer the flames 
►oared and rose above her, but yet there was hope. It failed 


6 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


^he b^am gave way, the ladder fell, and Rachel and her chilti 
wore precipitated to the ground. A heavy groan mingled 
with the wild shriek of horror which burst around. Perea 
rushed like a maniac forward ; but louder, shriller above it 
all a cry resounded, “ Mother ! mother ! oh God, my mother ! 
why was not I beside yon, to save Ruth in your stead? 
Mother, speak ; oh, speak to me again !” And the father and 
son, each unconscious of the other’s presence, met beside what 
seemed the lifeless body of one to both so dear. 

Rut Rachel was not dead, though fearfully injured ; and 
it was in the long serious illness that followed, Reuben proved 
that, despite his many faults and follies, affection was not all 
extinguished ; love for his mother remained in its full force, 
and in his devotion to her, his almost woman’s tenderness, 
not only towards her but towards his little sister Ruth, whose 
eyes had been so injured by the heat and smoke as to oc- 
casion total blindness, he demonstrated qualities only too 
likely so to gain a woman’s heart, as to shut her eyes to all 
other points of his character save them. 

A subscription had indeed been made for the sufferers by 
the fire, but they were so numerous, that the portion of indi- 
viduals was of course but small ; and even this Perez’s honest 
nature shrunk in suffering from accepting. Religious and 
energetic as he was, determined not to evince by word or 
sign how completely his spirit was crushed, and thus give the 
prejudiced of other faiths room to say, “the Jew has no re- 
source, no comfort,” he yet felt that he himself would never be 
enabled to hold up his head again ; felt it at the very mo- 
ment friends and neighbours were congratulating him on the 
equanimity, the cheerfulness with which he met and bore up 
against affliction. 

Yet even now, when the skeptic and unbeliever would 
have said, surely the God he so faithfully served had desert- 
ed him, Perez felt he was not deserted, — that he had not 
laboured honestly and religiously so long in vain. The wild 
and wayward conduct of the son could not, in candid and lib- 
eral minds, tarnish the character of the father ; and thus he 
was enabled easily and pleasantly to obtain advantageous sit- 
uations for his two elder children. 

The dwelling to which we originally introduced our reader 
was then to let ; and from its miserably dilapidated condition 
(for when Perez first saw it, it was not as we described), at a 
•emarkably low rent. An influential friend made it habita- 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


9 


ble, and tliither some three months after the fire, the family 
removed. 

And where was Sarah Levison, in the midst of these 
changes and afflictions? In their heavy trial, did Rachel 
and Perez never regret they had made her as their own? nor 
permit the murmuring thought to enter, that, as the girl had 
a father, they had surely no need to support an additional 
burden ? To such questions we think our readers will scarce- 
ly need an answer. As their own daughter Leah, they loved 
and cherished their niece, whose affection and gratitude to- 
wards them was yet stronger and more devoted than that of 
their own child, affectionate as she was. Leah had never 
known other than kind, untiring parents ; never, even in 
dreams, imagined the misery in which her cousin’s early years 
had passed. To Sarah, life had been a strange dark stream 
of grief and wrath, until she became an inmate of her uncle’s 
house. Though only just seventeen when these heavy sor- 
rows took place, her peculiarly quiet and reflective character 
and strong affections endowed her with the experience of 
more advanced age. She not only felt, but acted. Entering 
into the feelings alike of her uncle and aunt, she unconscious- 
ly soothed and strengthened both. She taught Leah’s young, 
and, from its high and joyous temperament, somewhat rebel- 
lious spirit, submission and self-control. She strengthened 
in the young Simeon the ardent desire to work, and not only 
assist his father now, but to raise him again to his former sta- 
tion in life. She found time to impart to the little Joseph 
such instruction as she thought might aid in gaining him em- 
ployment. Untiringly, caressingly, she nursed both her aunt 
and the poor little patient sufferer Ruth, telling such sweet 
tales of heaven, and its beautiful angels, and earth, and it 
pleasant places, and kind deeds, that the child would forget 
her sorrow as she listened, and fancy the sweet music of that 
gentle voice had never seemed so sweet before ; and while it 
spoke, she could not forget to wish to look once more on the 
flowers, and trees, and sky. And Reuben, what was his cousin 
Sarah not to him in these months of remorseful agony, when 
he felt as if he could never more displease or grieve his pa- 
rents ; when again and again he cursed himself as the real 
cause of his father’s ruin ; for bad not such large sums been 
wasted upon him, there might have been still capital enough 
to have set him afloat again. For several days and nights 
Sarah and Reuben had been joint watchers beside the beds oi 


10 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


Buffering; and the gentle voice of the former consoled, even 
while to the divine comfort and hope wliich she proffered, 
lleuben felt his heart was closed. He bade her speak on ; he 
seemed, in those still, silent hours to feel that, without hergentle 
influence, his very senses must have wandered ; and that heatt 
must have been colder and harsher than Sarah’s, which could 
have done other than believe she was not indifferent to him. 
Sarah did not think of many little proofs of affection at the 
time; she was only conscious that, at the very period heavy 
affliction had entered her uncle’s family, a new feeling, a new 
energy had awakened within her heart, and she w’as happy — 
oh, so happy ! 

It was to Sarah’s exertions their new dwelling owed the 
comfort, cleanliness, and almost luxury of its interior arrange- 
ments ; her example inspired Leah to throw aside the proud 
disdain with which she at first regarded their new home — to 
conquer the rebellious feeling which prompted her to entreat 
her father to apprentice her anywhere, so she need not live so 
differently at home ; and not only to conquer that sinful pride, 
but use her every energy to rouse her natural spirits, and make 
her parents forget how tlieir lot was changed : and the girl 
did so; for, in spite of youthful follies, there was good solid 
sense and warm feelings on which to work. 

Sarah and Leah, then, worked in the interior, and Perez 
and Simeon improved the exterior of the house, so that when 
the little family assembled, there was comfort and peace around 
them, and thus their song of praise and thanksgiving mingled 
with and hallowed the customary prayer, with which the son 
of Israel ever sanctifies his newly-appointed dwelling. 

Ilachel could no longer work as she had done ; her right 
arm had been so severely injured as to be nearly useless ; but 
Sarah supplied her place so actively, so happily, that Rachel 
f«dt she had no right to murmur at her own uselessness : the 
poor motherless girl she had taken to her heart and home, 
returned tenfold all that had been bestowed. She could 
have entered into more than one lucrative situation, but she 
would not hear of leaving that home which she knew need- 
ed her presence and her services ; and this was not the 
mere impulse of the moment : week after week, month after 
Dioiith, found her active, affectionate, persevering, as at first. 

The most painful circumstance in their present dwelling 
was its low neighbourhood ; and partially to remedy this evil, 
Rarah prevailed on her uncle to employ his Itisure in culti 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


11 


vating the little garden behind the house, making their sit- 
ting-room and kitchen open into it, and contriving an entrance 
through them, so as scarcely to use the front, except for ingress 
and egress which necessity compelled. This arrangement was 
productive of a twofold good ; it prevented all gossiping in- 
tercourse, which their neighbours had done all they could to 
introduce, and gave Perez an occupation which interested him, 
although he might never have thought of it himself. Both 
local and national disadvantages often unite to debar the Jews 
from agriculture, and therefore it is a branch in which they 
are seldom, if eveT, employed. Their scattered state among 
the nations, the occupations which misery and persecution 
compel them to adopt, are alone to blame for those peculiar 
characteristics which cause them to herd i i the most misera- 
ble alleys of crowded cities, rather than the pure air and 
cheaper living of the country. Perez found pleasure and a 
degree of health in his new employment: the delight which 
it was to his poor little blind Ruth to sit by his side while he 
worked, and inhale the reviving scent of the newly-turned 
earth or budding flowers, would of itself have inspired him, 
but his wife too shared the enjoyment. It was a pleasure to 
her to take the twins by her side, and teach them their 
God was a God of love, alike through his inspired Word, and 
through his works; and Joseph and Ruth learned to love 
their new hou?e better than their last, because it had a garden 
and flowers, and they learned from that much more than they 
had ever learned before. 

For nine months all was cheerfulness and joy in that low- 
ly dwelling. The heavy sorrow and disquiet had partially sub- 
sided. Reuben was more often at home, and seemed more 
steadily and honourably employed. Twice in six months ho 
had poiR-ed nis earnings in his mother’s lap ; and while he lin- 
gered caressingly by her side, how might she doubt or fear 
for him ? though when absent, his non-attendance at the syna- 
gogue, his too evident indiff’erence to his faith, his visible im- 
patience at all its enjoinments, caused many an anxious hour. 
Simeon and Leah gave satisfaction to their emplo^'ers, and 
Sarah earned sufficient to make her aunt’s compelled idleness 
of little consequence. Perez himself had been gladly received 
by his former master, as his principal journeyman, at excel 
lent wages; and could he have felt less painfully the bitter 
^shange in his lot, all might have been well. Pride, however, 
was unhappily his heirloom, as well as that of Levison. With 


12 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


Porez it had always acted as a good spirit— -with Levison as a 
bad ; inciting the former to all honourable deeds and thoughts, 
and acting as religion’s best agent in guarding him from 
wrong. Now, however,, it was to enact a different part. In 
vain his solid good sense argued misfortune was no shame, 
and that he was as high, in a moral point of view, as he had 
ever been. Equally vain was the milder, more consoling voice 
of religion, in assuring him a Father’s hand had sent the afflic- 
tion, and therefore it was love ; that he failed in submission 
if he could not bear up against it. In vain conscience told 
him, while she was at rest and glad, all outward things ^ould 
be the same ; that while his wife ana children had been so 
mercifully preserved, thankfulness, not grief, should be his 
portion. Pride, that dark failing which will chng to Juda- 
ism, bore all other argument away, and crushed him. Had 
he complained, or given way to temper, his health perhaps 
would not have been injured ; but he was silent on his own 
griefs, even to his wife, for he knew their encouragement was 
wrong. There was no outward change in his appearance or 
physical power, and had he not been attacked by a cold and 
fever, occasioned by a very inclement winter, the wreck of his 
constitution might never have been discovered. But trifling 
as his ailments at first appeared, it was but too soon evident 
that he had no strength to rally from them. Grradually, yet 
surely, he sunk, and with a grief which, demonstrating itself 
in each according to their different characters, was equally vio- 
lent in all, his afflicted family felt they dared not hope ; the 
husband and the father was passing to his home above, and 
they would soon indeed be desolate. 

It was verging towards the early spring, when one evening 
Perez lay on his lowly pallet, surrounded by his family ; his 
hand was clasped in that of his wife, whose eyes were fixed on 
him with a look of such deep love, it was scarcely possible io 
gaze on her without tears ; the other rested lightly on the beau- 
tiful curls of his little Kuth, who, resting on a wooden stool 
close beside his bed, sometimes lifted up her sightless orbs, as 
if, in listening to the dear, though now, alas ! but too faint 
voice, she could see his beloved face once more. One alone 
was absent — one for whom the father yearned as the patriarch 
Jacob for his Joseph. Beuben had been sent by his employer 
to Manchester, and though it was more than time for him to 
return, and tidings of his father’s illness had been faithfully 
transmitted, he was still away. No one spoke of him, yet he 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


18 


was thought of by all ; so little had his eonduct alienated the 
affections of his family, that not one "would utter aloud the 
wish for his presence, lest it should seem reproach ; but the 
eyes of his mother, when they could turn from her husbaml, 
ever sought the door ; and once, as an eager step seemed to 
approach, she had risen hastily and descended breathlessly, 
but it passed on, and she returned to her husband’s pallet with 
large tears stealing down her cheeks. 

“ Rachel, my own dear wife, do not weep thus ; he will 
come yet,” whispered Perez, clasping her hands in both his ; 
“ and if he do not, oh, may God bless him still ! Tell him 
there was no thought of anger or reproach within me. My 
firstborn, first beloved, beloved through all — for wayward, in- 
different as he is, he is still my son — perhaps if he tarry till 
too late, remorse may work upon him for good, may awaken 
him to better thoughts ; and if our God in His mercy detain 
him for this, we must not grieve that he is absent.” 

For a moment he paused ; then he added, mournfully, “ I 
had hoped he would have supplied my place — would have been 
to you, my Rachel, to his brothers and sisters, all that a first- 
born should ; but it may not be. God’s will be done !” 

“ Oh, no, no ; do not say it may not be, dear uncle ! Think 
how young he is ! Is there not hope still ?” interposed Sarah, 
so earnestly, that the colour rose to her cheeks. “ He will Be 
her.', I know he will, or the letter has not reached him. You 
cannot doubt his love ; and whilst there is love, is there not 
must there not be hope ?” 

The dying man looked on her with a faint, sad smile : “ I 
do not doubt his love, my child ; but oh, if he love not his 
God, his love for a mortal will not keep him from the evil 
path. His youth is but a vain plea, my Sarah ; if he see not 
his duty as a son and brother in Israel now, when may we 
hope he will ? but you are right in bidding me not despond. 
He is my heaviest care in death ; but my God can lighten 
even that.” 

Death,” sobbed Leah, suddenly flinging herself on her 
knees beside the bed, and covering her father’s hand with tears 
and kisses, “ death ! Father, dear, dear father, do not say 
that dreadful word ! You will live, you must live — God will 
not take you from us !” 

“ My child, call not death a dreadful word ; it is only such 
to the evil-doers, to the proud and wicked men, of whom Da- 
vid tells us, ‘ They shall not stand in the judgment, nor ente^ 


14 


THE PEREZ PAMILY. 


the congregation of the righteous, hut shall be as chatF, which 
the wind driveth away.’ For them death is fearful, for it is 
an end of all things ; but not to me is it thus, my beloved 
ones. 1 have sought to love and serVe my God in health 
and life, and His deep love and fathomless mercy is guid- 
ing me now, holding me up here through the dark shadows 
of death. His compassion is upon my soul, whispering my 
sins are all forgiven; that He has called me unto Him in 
love, and not in wrath. There was a time 1 feared and 
trembled at the bare dream of death ; but now. oh, it seems 
but as the herald of joy, of bliss which will never, never 
change. My children, think that I go to God, and do not 
grieve for me.” 

‘‘ If not for you, my father, chide us not that we weep for 
ourselves,” answered Simeon, struggling with the rising sob ; 
“ what have you not been all of us ? and how may we bear 
to feel that to us you are lost for ever ; that the voice whose 
accents of love never failed to thrill our hearts with joy, and 
when in reproach ever brought the most obdurate in repentant 
sorrow to your feet, that dear, dear voice we may never— ” 
he could not go on, for his own voice was choked. 

My boy, we shall all meet again ; follow on in that path 
of good in which I have humbly sought to lead you ; forget not 
your God, and the duties of your faith ; obey those commands 
and behests wdiich to Israel are enjoined ; never forget that, 
as children of Israel, ye are the firstborn and beloved of the 
Lord; serve Him, trust in Him, wait for Him, and oh, be- 
lieve the words of the dying! We shall meet again never 
more to part. I do but go before you, my beloved ones, and 
you will come to me ; there are many homes in heaven where 
the lov“d of the Lord shall meet.” 

“ And I and Ruth — father, dear father, how may we so 
love the Lord, as to be so loved by him ?” tearfully inquired 
the young Joseph, drawing back the curtain at the head of 
the bed, which had before concealed him, for he did not like 
his father to see his tears. Hoes He look upon us w.th 
the same love as upon you, who have served him so faithfully 
and well ? Oh, what would I not do, that I may look upon 
death as you do, and feel that I may come to you in heaven, 
written amongst those He loves.” 

“And our God does love you, my little Joseph, child as 
you are, or you would not think and wish this ; my works are 
uot more in II is sight than yours. Miserable indeed should 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


15 


I BOW be, if I bad trusted iu them alone for my salvation and 
comfort now. No, my sweet boy, you must not look to deeds 
ul nie ; study the word of your God to know and love Him^ 
and then will you obey His coinniandments and statutes with 
rejoicing, and glory that He has given you tests by which yo\.' 
may prove the love you bear Him : and in death, though 
the imperfection and insufl&ciency of your best deeds be then 
revealed, you will feel and know you have not loved your God 
in vain. His infinite mercy will purify and pardon." 

His voice sunk from exhaustion ; and Rachel, bending over 
him to wipe the moisture from his brow, tenderly entreated 
him not to speak any more then, despite the comfort of his 
simplest word. 

“ It will not hurt me, love,” he answered, fondly, after a 
pause. “ I bless God that He permits me thus to speak, be- 
fore I pass from earth for ever. When we meet again, there 
will be no need for nie to bid my children to know and love 
the Lord ; for we shall all know Him, from the smallest to 
the greatest- of us. Rut to you, my own faithful wife, oh, 
what shall i say to you in this sad moment ? I can but give 
you to His care, the God of the widow and the fatherless, 
and feel and know He will not leave you nor forsake you, but 
bless you with exceeding blessing. And in that heavy care — 
which, alas ! I must leave you to bear alone — care for our 
precious Reuben, oh, my beloved wife, remember those treas- 
ured words, which were our mutual strength ' od comfort, 
when we laboured in our youth. How well do I remember 
that blessed evening, when we first spoke our love, and in our 
momentary despondence that long years must pass ere we 
could hope for our union, we opened the hallowed word of 
God, and could only see this verse : ‘ Commit thy ways unto 
the Lord, trust also in him and he will bring it to pass.’ And 
did He not bring it to pass, dear wife ? Did He not bless our 
efforts, and oh, will He not still? Yes, trust iu Him; com- 
mit our Reuben unto Him. and all shall yet be well !” 

‘‘ Yes, yes, I know it will; but oh, my husband, pray for 
me, that I may realize this blessed trust when you arc gone. 
You have been my support, my aid, till now, cheering my 
despondence, soothing my fears ; and now — ” 

‘‘ Rachel, my own wife, I have not been to you more than 
you have to me ; it is our God who has been to us more — oh, 
how much more ! — than we have been to each other, and Ho 
is with you still. He will heal the wound His love inflicts 


16 


THE PEREZ FAMILi. 


But for our erring, yet our mucli-loved boy, I need not bid 
you love him, forgive him to the end — and his brothers and 
sisters. Oh, listen to me, my children.” He half raised 
nimself in the energy of his supplication. “ Promise me but 
this, throw him not off from your love, your kindness, however 
he may turn aside, however he may fall ; even if that fearful 
indifference increase, and in faith he scarcely seems your 
brother, my children, my blessed children, oh, love him still 
Seek by kindness and affection to bring him back to his de- 
serted fold. Promise me to love him, to bear with him ; for- 
get not that he is your brother, even to the last. Many a 
wanderer would return if love welcomed him back, many a 
one who will not bear reproach. Do not cast him from your 
hearts, my children, for your dead father’s sake.” 

“ Father, father, can you doubt us?” burst at once from 
all, and rising from their varied postures, they joined hands 
around him. “ Love him ! yes. However he may forget and 
desert us, he is still our brother and your son. We will love 
him, bear with him. Oh, do not fear us, father. There 
needed not this promise, but we will give it. W e will never 
cease to love him.” 

“ Bless you, my children,” murmured the exhausted man, 
as he sunk back. “ Sarah, you have not spoken. Are you 
not our child ?” 

“She flung down her work and darted to his side. She 
struggled to speak, but no words came, and throwing her 
arms round his neck, she fixed on his face one long, piercing 
look, and burst into passionate tears. 

“ It is enough, my child. I need not bid you love him,” 
whispered Perez, so as to be heard only by her. “ W ould 
you were indeed our own ; there would be less grief in store.” 

“ And am I not your own ?” she answered, disregarding 
his last words, which seemed, however, to have restored her to 
calmness. “ Have you not been to me a true and tender 
father, and my aunt as kind a mother ? Whose am I if I am 
not yours? Where shall I find another such home?” 

“ Yet you have a father, my gentle girl ; one whom I have 
lately feared would claim you, because they told me he was 
once more a wealthy man. And if he should, if he would 
offer you the rest and comfort of competence, why should you 
labour throughout your young years for us ?• If he be rich, 
he surely will not forget he has a child, and therefore claim 
you.” 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


IV 


- “ He has done so,” replied Sarah, calmly, regardless of the 
various intonations of surprise in which her words were re- 
peated. “ My father did write for me to join him. He told 
me he was rich ; would make me cease entirely from labour, 
and many similar kind offers.” 

“ And you refused them ! Sarah, my dear child, why 
have you done this ?” 

“Why,” she repeated, pressing the trembling hand hei 
aunt held out to her between both hers ; “ why, because now, 
only now, can I even in part return all you have done for me ; 
because I cannot live apart from all whom I so love. I can* 
not exchange for short-lived riches all that makes life dear. 
Had my father sent for me in sickness or in woe, I should fly 
to him without an hour’s pause. But it is he who is in afflu- 
ence, in peace ; and you, my best, kindest friends, in sorrow. 
No, no ; my duty was to stay with you, to work for you, to 
love you ; and I wrote to beseech his permission to remain, 
even if it were still to labour. I did not feel it labour when 
with you ; and I have permission. I am still your child ; he 
will not take me from you.” 

God’s blessing be upon him !” murmured Rachel, as she 
folded the weeping girl to her bosom. 

A pause of deep emotion fell upon the group. Perez 
drew her faintly to him, and kissed her cheek ; then saying 
he felt exhausted, and should wish to be left alone a brief 
while, Sarah led the twins away, and, followed by Leah, softly 
left the apartment. Simeon and his mother still remained 
beside his couch. 

The night passed quietly. Sarah put the twins to bed, 
and persuaded Leah to follow their example, and, exhausted 
by sorrow, she was soon asleep, leaving Sarah to watch and 
pray alone ; and the poor girl did pray, and think and weep, 
till it seemed strange the night could so soon pass, and morn- 
ing smile again. She had not told that permission to remain 
with her aunt had been scornfully and painfully given ; that 
her father had derided her, as mean-spirited and degraded ; 
that as she had chosen to remain with her poor relations, she 
was no longer his daughter. Nor did she pray and weep for 
the dying, or for those around him. One alone was in that 
heart ! Why was he not there at such a moment r and she 
shuddered as she pictured the violence of the self-accusing 
agony which would be upon him when he discovered he had 
lingered until too late Hour after hour passed, and there 


18 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


was HO footstep. She thought the chimes must have ruug too 
near each other ; for as one struck, she believed he must be 
at home ere it struck another, and 3 'et lie came not; she 
watched in vain. 

Day dawned, and as light gleamed in upon the dying, 
there was a change upon his face. He had not suffered 
throughout the night, seeming to sleep at intervals, and then 
lay calmly without speaking ; but as the day gradually 
brightened, he reopened his eyes and looked towards the 
richly glowing east. 

‘‘ Another sun !” he said, in a changed and hollow voice. 

Blessed be the God who sets him in the heavens, strong and 
rejoicing as a young man to run a race : my race is over — my 
light will pass before his. I prayed ane night’s delay, but 
still he does not come ; and now it will soon be over. Rachel, 
my true wife, call the children ; let me bless them each once 
more.” 

They were called, and, awe-struck even to silence at the 
fearful change in that loved face, they one by one drew near, 
and bowed down their bright heads before him. Faintly, yet 
distinctly, he spoke a blessing upon each ; then murmured, 
“ The God of my Fathers bless you all, all as you love Him 
and each other. Never deny Him; acknowledge Him as 
One ! Hear. 0 Israel ! the Lord our God, the Lord is one !” 

The w'ords were repeated in tears and sobs by all ; he fell 
back, and they thought his spirit gone. Minutes rolled by, 
and then there was a rapid step without ; it neared the door, 
one moment paused, and entered. 

“ My son, my son ! O God, I thank thee ! Reuben, my 
firstborn, in time, I bless, bless — ” the words were lost in a 
fearful gurgling sound, but the father’s arms were fiung 
wildly, strongly round the son, who, with bitter tears, had 
thrown himself upon his neck — and there was silence. 

“ Father ! oh, my father, speak — bless, forgive me !” at 
length Reuben wildly exclaimed, breaking from that convul- 
sive hold to sink as a penitent upon the earth. Ho spoke iu 
✓ain ; the spirit had lingered to gaze once more upon tlic 
firstboru of his love, thtu fie I from earth for ever. 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


19 


CHAPTER 11. 

It is two years after the mournful event recorded in our last 
chapter that we recommence our simple narrative. When 
time and prayer had softened the first deep affliction, the 
widow and her family indeed proved the fulfilment of that 
blessed promise, “ Leave thy fatherless children to me, and 
I will keep them alive, and let thy widows trust in me for 
they prospered and were happy. Affliction, either of failing 
health in those compelled to labour, or in want of employment, 
was kept far from them. The widow, indeed, herself often 
suffered ; but she thanked God, in the midst even of pain, as 
she compared the blessings of her lot with those of others. 
Little Ruth, too, from her affliction and very delicate healthy 
was often an object of anxiety ; but so tenderly was she be- 
loved, that anxiety was scarcely pain in the delight her pres- 
ence ever caused. Sweet-tempered, loving, and joyous, with 
a voice of song like a bird’s, and a laugh of childlike ^ee, 
and yet such strong affections, such deep reverence for all 
things holy, that- who might grieve for her afflictions when 
she was so happy, so gratified herself? She was the star of 
that lowly little dwelling, for sorrow, or discord, or care could 
not come near her. 

Joseph, her twin brother, had attracted the notice of a 
respectable jeweller, who, though he could not take the boy 
into his house as a regular apprentice till he was thirteen, not 
only employed him several hours in the day in cleaning 
jewels, etc., but allowed him small wages — an act of real be- 
nevolence, ifelt by the widow as an especial blessing, rendered 
perhaps the dearer from the thought, that it was the high 
character her husband had borne which gave his youngest son 
BO responsible an office, intrusted as it was to none but tne 
strictly honest. 

Simeon, now nearly seventeen, was with the same watch- 
maker who had formerly brought forward his father. It was 
not a trade he liked ; nay, the delicate machinery required 
was particularly annoying to him, but it was the only opening 
.lor him, and he conquered his disinclination. He had long 
since made a vow to use his every effort to restore his parents 
to the comfortable estate from which they had Unfortunately 
fallen, and no thought of himself or his own wishes should iu 
2 


20 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


terfere with its accomplishment. Persevering and resolutei 
Le took a good heart with him to the business ; and though 
his first attempts were awkward, and the laughter of his com- 
panions most discouraging, the praise of his master and hia 
own conscience urged him on, and before the two years which 
we have passed over had elapsed, he had conquered every dif- 
ficulty, and promised in time to be quite as good a workman 
as his father. 

The extent of suffering which his father’s death had been 
to him no one knew, but he had felt at first as if he could not 
rouse himself again. It was useless to struggle on ; for tho 
beloved parent, for whose sake he had made this solemn vow, 
was gone for ever. His mother indeed was spared him ; but 
much as he loved and reverenced her, his father had been, if 
possible, first in his affections. Perhaps it was that his own 
feelings, his own character, gave him a clue to all that his 
father had done and endured. He had all his honesty and 
honour, all his energy, and love for his ancient faith. One 
difference there was : Perez could bear with, nay, love all 
mankind — could find excuse for the erring, even for the apos- 
tate, much as he abhorred the deed ; could believe in the sin- 
cerity and piety of others, though their faith differed from his 
own ; but Simeon could not feel this. Often, even in his 
childhood, his father had to reprove him for prejudice ; and as 
he grew older, his hatred against all those who left the faith, 
or united themselves in any way with other than Israelites, 
continued violent. Prejudice is almost the only feeling which 
reason cannot conquer^religion may, and Simeon was truly 
and since: ely religious ; but he loved his faith better than ho 
loved Ids God. He would have started and denied it, had 
any one told him so, and declared it was impossible — one 
feeling could not be distinct or divided from the other ; yet 
so it was. An earnest and heartfelt love of God can never 
permit an emotion so violent as hatred to any of God’s crea- 
tures. It is no test of our own sincerity to condemn or disbe- 
lieve in that of others ; and those who do — who are prejudiced 
and violent against all who differ from them — may be. no 
doubt are, sincerely religious and well intentioned, but they 
love their faith better than they love their God. 

These peculiar feelings occasioned a degree of coldness in 
Simeon’s sentiments towards his brother Reuben, of whom we 
have little more to say than we know already. 

The death of his father was indeed a fearful shock ; yet 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. .. 2l 

from a few words wliich fell fromliim during some of nis inter* 
views with Sarah, she fancied that he almost rejoiced that he 
was bound by no promise to the dying. In the midst of re- 
pentant agony that he had arrived too late for his parent’s 
blessing, he would break off with a half shudder, and mutter. 
“ If he had spoken that, he might have spoken more, and I 
could not have disobeyed him on his death-bed. Whatever 
he bade me promise I must have promised ; and then, then, 
after a few brief months, been perjured. Oh, my father, my 
father ! why is it my fate to be the wretch I am?” 

This grief was violent, but it did not produce the good 
effect which his parents had so fondly hoped. Even in the 
days of mourning, it was evident that the peculiar forms 
which his faith enjoined, as the son of the deceased, chafed 
and irritated him ; and had it not been for the deep, silent 
suffering of his mother, which he could not bear to increase 
he would have neglected them altogether. When he mixed 
with the world again, he followed his own course and his own 
will, scarcely ever mixing with those of his own race, but 
seeking, and at last finding employment with the stranger. 
IJe had excellent abilities ; and from his having received a 
better education than most youths of his race, obtained at 
length a lucrative situation in an establishment which, trading 
to many different parts of the British Isles, often required an 
active agent to travel for them. His peculiar creed had beep 
at first against him; but when his abilities were put to tin, 
proof, and it was discovered he was in truth only nominally 
a Jew, that he cared not to sacrifice the Sabbath, and that no 
part of his religion was permitted to interfere with his 2m* 
ployments, his services were accepted and well paid. 

Had then Reuben Perez, the beloved and cherished son of 
such good and pious parents, indeed deserted the religion of 
his forefathers ? Not in semblance, for there were times when 
he still visited the synagogue ; and as he did so, he was by 
many still conceived a good Jew. The flagrant follies of his 
youth had subsided ; he was no longer wild, wavering* and ex- 
travagant, Not a word could be spoken against his moral 
principles ; his public, even his domestic conduct w’as unexcep- 
iionable. and therefore he bore a high character in the estima 
tion alike of the Jewish and Christian world. What cause 
had his mother, then, for the grief and pain which swelled her 
heart almost to bursting, when she thought upon her first born ? 
Alas! it was because she felt there was One who saw deeper 


22 


THE PEKEZ FAMILY. 


than the world- -One, between whom and himself Reuben had 
raised up a dark barrier of wrath — One who loved him, erring 
and sinful as he was, with an immeasurable love, but whose 
deep love was rejected and abused — even nis God, that God 
who had been the Saviour of his forefathers through so many 
thousand ages. The mother would have preferred seeing him 
poor, dependent, obtaining but his daily bread, yet faithful to 
his faith and to his God, than prosperous, courted, and an 
lilien. 

The brothers seldom met, and therefore Simeon was ig- 
norant how powerfully coldness was creeping over his a flec- 
tions for Reuben ; how, in violently condemning his indififer- 
ence and union with the stranger, he was ren lering the 
observance of his promise to his dying father (to bear with 
and love his brother) a matter of difiiculty and pain. Faith- 
ful and earnest himself, he could not understand a want of 
earnesiness and fidelity in others. But, howmver the world 
miglit flatter and appear to honour Iris exemplary moral con- 
duct, one truth it is our duty to record — Reuben was not 
happy. It was not the mere fancy of his mother and cousin, 
it was truth ; they knew not wherefore — for if he neglected 
and contemned his religion, he could scarcely feel the want of 
it — but that he was unhappy, perhaps was the secret cause 
which held the love of his mother and Sarah so immovably 
enchained, bidding them hope sometimes in the very midst of 
gloom. 

Of the female members of Perez’ family we have little to 
remark. Leah’s good conduct had not only made her the 
favourite of her mistress, but her liveliness and happy temper 
had actually triumphed over the sometimes harsh disposition 
she had had at first to encounter. There was no withstanding 
her good humour. She had the happy knack of making people 
good friends with themselves, as well as with each other, and 
was so happy herself, that, except when she thought of her 
dear father, and wished that he could but see her and hear her 
sing over her work, sorrow was unknown. Every Friday eve- 
ning she went home to remain till the Sunday morning, and 
that was superlative enjoyment, not only to herself, for her 
mother looked to the visit of her merry, affectionate daughter 
as a source of pure feeling, delight, and recreation. 

In Siirah there was nc change. Still pensive, modest, and 
industrious, she continued quietly to retain the most devoted 
affections of her relatives, and the good-will and respect of hei 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


23 


jmployers. Of her own individual feelings we must not now 
ppeak, save to say that few, even of her domestic circle, 
imagined how strong and deep was the under-current of 
character which her quiet mien concealed. 

It was the evening of the Sabbath, and the widow and her 
daughters were assembled in their pretty little parlour. 
Simeon and Joseph were not yet returned from synagogue. 
Eeuben, alas ! was seldom there on the Sabbath eve. The 
table was covered with a cloth, which, though not of the finest 
description, was white as the driven snow ; and the Sabbath 
lamp was lighted, for in their greatest poverty this ceremony 
had never been omitted. When they had no lamp, and could 
not have afforded oil, they burnt a wax candle, frequentl}^ depri- 
ving themselves of some week-day necessary to procure this in- 
dulgence. The first earnings of Sarah, Leah, and Simeon had 
been used to repurchase the ancient Sabbath lamp, the heir- 
loom in their family for many generations. It was silver and 
very antique, and by a strange chance had escaped the fire, 
which rendered perhaps the sale of it the more painful to 
Perez. His gratification on beholding it again had amply 
repaid his affectionate children. Never being used but on 
Sabbaths, it seemed to partake of the sanctity of that holy 
day. 

Bread and salt were also upon the table, and the large 
Bible and its attendant prayer-books there also, open, as if 
they had just been used. Buth had plucked some sweet 
flowers just before Sabbath, and arranged tl.em tastefully in 
a china cup, and Leah had playfully removed a sprig of rose- 
buds and wreathed it in the long glossy curls which hung 
round Buth’s sweet face and over her shoulders. The dresses 
of all were neat and clean, for they loved to make a distinc- 
tion between the seventh day and the six days of labour. 

“ If we were about to pass a day in the presence of an 
earthly sovereign, my dear children,” the widow had often 
been wont to say, should we not deserve to be excluded if 
we appeared rudely and slovenly and dirtily attired? You 
think we could not possibl}i do so ; it would not only be such 
marked disrespect, but we should not be admitted. IIow, 
then, dare we seek the presence of our heavenly sovereign in 
such rude and sinful disarray ? The seventh day is His day. 
He calls upon us to throw aside all worldly thoughts and 
cares, and come to Him, and give our thoughts and hearts to 
His holy service. If an earthly king so called us, how 


24 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


anxious should we be to accept the invitation — shall we do 
less for God ?” 

“ But, dear mother/’ Leah would answer, “ will God regard 
that ? Is He not too holy, too fur removed from us, too pure 
too mark such little things ?” 

“ Nothing is too small for Him to remark, if done in love 
and faith, my child. The heart anxious to mark the Sabbath 
by increase of cleanliness and neatness in personal attire, as 
well as household arrangements, must conceive it God’s own 
day, and observing it as such will receive His blessing. It is 
not the act of dressing or the dress He observes. He only 
marks it as a proof His holy day is welcomed with love and 
rejoicing, as He commanded ; and the smallest offering of 
OBEDIENCE is acceptable to Him.” 

. ‘‘But I have heard you remark with regret, mother, that 
some of our neighbours are dressed so very smart on Sabbath. 
If it be to mark the holy difference between that day and the 
others, why should you regret it ?” 

“ Because love, there ought to be moderation in all things, 
and when I see very smart showy dresses, which, if not in 
material, in appearance are much too fine and smart for our 
station, I fear it is less a religious than a worldly feeling 
which dictates them. Have you not noticed that those who 
dress so gaily generally spend their Sabbath in walking about 
the streets and exchanging visits, conversing, of course, on 
the most frivolous topics? I do not think this the proper 
method of spending our Sabbath day, and therefore I regret 
to see them devote so much time and thought on mere out- 
v/ard decoration, which is so widely different from obedience 
%o their God.” 

Leah thought of this little conversation many times. From 
ihoughtlessness and dislike to trouble, she had hitherto been 
rather negligent than otherwise in her dress ; then going to a 
contrary extreme, felt very much inclined to imitate some 
young companions in their finery. Her mother’s word saved 
her from the one, and their subsequent misfortunes effectually 
from the other, as all her earnings were hoarded for one holy 
purpose, simply to assist her parents; and she would have 
thought it sacrilege to lave spent any portion on herself, 
except on things which she absolutely needed. But so neat 
and clean was she invariably in her dress, that her mistress 
always sent her to receive orders, and, trifling as appearance 
may seem, it repeatedly gained customers. 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


25 


“ They are coming — I hear their footsteps,” said the little 
Kuth, springing up to open the parlour door. “ Oh ! I do so 
love the Sabbath eve, for it brings us all together again so 
happily.” 

‘‘ Is it only Simeon and Joseph, my child ?” inquired the 
widow, mournfully ; for there was one expectation on her 
heart and that of Sarah, which, alas ! was seldom to be 
fulfilled. 

Huth listened attentively. 

“ Only they, mother !” she said, checking her voice of glee, 
and returning to her mother’s side, for she knew the cause of 
that saddened tone, and she laid her little head caressingly on 
her mother’s breast. 

Simeon and Joseph at that moment entered, and each ad- 
vancing, bent lowly before their mother, wh-o, laying her hand 
upon each dear head, blessed them in a voice fixltering from 
its emotion, and kissed them both. The kiss of love and 
peace went round, and gaily the brothers and sisters drew 
round the table, which Sarah’s provident love speedily covered 
with the welcome evening meal. The happy laugh and affec- 
tionate interchange of the individual cares and pleasures, 
vexations and enjoyments of the past week, occupied them 
delightfully during tea. Sarah had to tell of a now kind of 
work which had diversified her usual employment, and been 
most successful ; a kind of wadded slipper, which, after many 
trials, she had completed to her satisfaction, in the intervals 
of other work ; and which not only sold well, but gave her 
dear aunt an occupation which she could accomplish without 
pain, in wadding and binding the silk. Leah told of a pretty 
dress and bonnet which her mistress had presented to her, in 
token of her approbation of her steadiness in refusing to ac- 
company her companions to some place of amusement, which, 
from its respectability being doubted, she knew her mother 
would not approve; and, by staying at home, enabled Mrs. 
Magnus to finish an expensive order a day sooner than had 
been expected, and so gained her a -new and wealthy cus- 
tomer. 

Dearest mother, you told me how to resist temptation 
even in trifles,” continued the affectionate girl, with tears of 
feeling in her bright dark eyes. “ You taught me from my 
earliest childhood there was purer and more lasting pleasure in 
conquering my own wishes than any doubtful recreation could 
bestow ; and that in that inward pleasure our heavenly Fa- 


THE PEREZ FAMLIY. 


S6 

kher’s approval was made manifest. And so, you see, though 
you were not near me and I could not, as I wished, ask your 
advice and permission, it was you who enabled me to conquer 
myself, and resist this temptation. I did want to go, and 
felt very, very lonely when all went ; but when Mrs. Magnus 
thanked me for enabling her to give so much satisfaction, and 
said I gained her a new customer, oh, no circus ox play could 
have given me such happiness as that ; and it was all through 
you, mother, and so I told her.” 

The happy mother smiled on her animated girl ; but her 
heart did not glorify itself, it thanked God that her early 
efforts had been so blessed. “ And Ruth !” some of our 
readers may exclaim, ‘‘ poor blind Ruth, what can she have 
to say?” And we answer, happy little Ruth had much of 
industry and enjoyment to dilate on. The straw she had 
plaited, the hymns she had learnt through Sarah’s kindly 
teaching, the dead leaves she had plucked from the shrubs and 
flowers, for so delicate had her sense of touch become, she 
could follow this occupation in perfect security to the plants, 
distinguishing the dead and dying from the perfect leaves at 
a touch. Then she told of a poor little orphan beggar girl, 
whom Sarah had one day brought in cold and crying, because 
she had been begging all day and had received nothing, and 
she knew she should be beat when she went home ; and how 
she had said she hated begging, but she could do nothing else ; 
and little Ruth had asked her if she would like to sell flowers ; 
and poor Mary had told her she should like it very very much, 
but she could not get any. She knew no one who would let 
her take them from the garden. How she (Ruth) had prom- 
ised to make her some little nosegays, and Sarah and her 
mother said they would make her some little nick-nacks, pin- 
cushions, and housewives to put with her flowers. 

“ Ah, we made her so happy !” continued the child, clasp 
ing her little hands in delight. “ Mother gave her some of 
my old things, which were quite good to her, and it is quite a 
pleasure to me to make, her nosegays, and feel they give her a 
few pence better than begging; and Sarah is going to try if I 
can make her some little fancy things when winter conies. 
You know I am quite rich to her, for God ha.s given me a 
home, and such a kind mother, and dear brothers and sisters 
and she has neither home nor mother, nor any one to love her. 
Poor, poor Mary I and then, too, some say the Christians do 
not like the Jews, and I know she will and does like us, and 
Khe may make others of her people like us too.” 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


27 


^ “ Ruth,” said her brother Simeon, in a very strange husky 
voice, “ Ruth, darling, come here and kiss me. I wish yon 
would make me as good as you.” 

“ As good !” exclaimed the child, springing on his knee, 
and throwing her arms round his neck ; “ dear naughty Sime- 
on, to say such a thing. How much more you can do than I. 
Ho you not work so very much, that dear mother sometimes 
fears for your health ? and it is all for us, to help to support 
us, mother and me, because we cannot work for ourselves. Ah, 
I am blind, and can only do little things, and try to- nake 
every one happy, that they may love me ; but I am only a lit- 
tle girl ; I cannot be as good as you.” 

Ruth, darling, I could not do as you have done. I can- 
not love and serve those who hate and persecute us as Israel- 
ites.” 

‘‘ They do not persecute us now, brother. Sarah told me 
sad tales of what we suffered once ; but God was angry with 
us then, and he made the nations punish us. But now, if 
they still dislike us, we ought not to dislike them, but do all 
we can to make them love us.” 

Simeon bent his head upon his sister’s ; her artless words 
had rebuked and shamed him. But prejudice might not even 
then be overcome. He knew she was right and he was wrong, 
so he would not answer, glad to hear Leah gaily demand a 
history of his weekly proceedings, as he had not yet spoken. 
He had little to relate, except that he was now beginning re- 
ally to understand his business. His master had said that he 
should soon be obliged to raise his salary ; and, what was a 
real source of happiness, from the care and quickness with 
which he now accomplished his tasks, he found time for his 
favourite am isement of modelling, which circumstances had 
compelled him so long to neglect. Joseph had to tell siuiilai 
kindness on the part of his master, and industry on his own. 
He told, too, with great glee, that Mr. Bennet had promised 
to give him some lessons in the evenings, in the language 
which of all others he wished most particularly to understand. 
He knew many were satisfied merely to read their prayers in 
Hebrew, whether they understood them or not, but he wished 
to understand it thoroughly ; and all the time he was clean- 
ing jewels — for he was now quite expert — he thought ovei 
what his master had so kindly taught him ; perhaps one day 
he might be able to know Hebrew thoroughly himself, am) 
oh, what a delight that would be ! 


28 


THE PEREZ FAMILY 


By the time Joseph had finished his tale, the table had 
been cleared ; and then the widow opened the large Bible, 
and after fervently blessing God for His mercy in permitting 
them all to see the close of another week in health and peace, 
read aloud a chapter and psalm. Varied as were the charac- 
ters and wishes of all present, every heart united in reverence 
and love towards this weekly service — in, if possible, increas- 
ed devotion towards that belo\ed parent, who so faithfully 
endeavoured to support not alone her own duties towards her 
offspring, but those of their departed father. She had not 
lost those hours and days, aye, and sometimes long weeks of 
suffering, with which it had pleased God to afflict her. When 
confined to her bed, the Bible had been her sole companion, 
and she so communed with it and her own heart, that many 
passages, which had before been veiled, were now made clear 
and light, and her constant prayer for wisdom and religion to 
lead her offspring in its paths of pleasantness and peace grant- 
ed to the full. Yet Rachel was no great scholar. Let it not 
be imagined amongst those who read this little tale, that she 
was unusually gifted. She was indeed so far gifted that she 
had a trusting spirit and a most humble and childlike mind^ 
and of worldly ways was most entirely ignorant ; and it was 
these feelings which kept her so persevering in the path of 
duty, and, leading her to the footstool of her God, gave her 
the strength of wisdom that she needed : and to every mother 
in Israel these powers are given. 

“ Well, my dear children, to whom must I look for the 
text which is to occupy us this evening said the widow glanc- 
ing affectionately round as she ceased to read. 

‘ To me and Ruth, mother ; for you know we always think 
together,” answered Joseph, eagerly. “ And you don’t know 
how we have both been longing for this evening, for the verse 
we have chosen has made us think so much, and with all our 
thinking, we cannot quite satisfy ourselves.” 

“ But what is it, my boy?” 

“ It is the one our dear father repeated on his death-bed, 
mother. I have often thought of it since, but feared it would 
make you sorrowful, if we spoke of it for the first year oi 
two ; but as I found Ruth had thought of it and wished it 
explained also, we said we would ask you to talk about it to- 
night. You repeat it, Ruth ; you pronounce the Hebrew so 
picttily !” 

And timidly, but sweetly, Ruth said, first in Hebrew and 


TIIE PEREZ FAMILY. 


29 


then in English, “ ‘ Commit yonr ways unto the Lord ; trust 
also in him, and ho will bring it to pass.’ Ways'^^ continued 
the child, “ was the word which first puzzled us, but Sarah 
has explained it to me so plainly, I understand it better now.’’ 

“ Tell us then Sarah dear,” said her aunt. 

“ It seems to me,” she said, “ that the word ivays has many 
meanings. In the verse, ‘ Show me thy ways, 0 Lord,’ I think 
it means actions. In another verse, ‘ The Lord made known 
his xoays unto Moses, his acts unto the children of Israel,’ ] 
think ways mean thoughts?^ 

And there are several in Proverbs,” interposed Simeon, 
which would make us regard ways as the path we are to tread ; 
as for instance. ‘Who leaveth the path of righteousness, to 
walk in the ways of darkness.’ ” 

“ But Ruth and I want to know in which of these ways wo 
are to regard it in our verse,” persisted Joseph. 

“ As meaning both outward actions and inward thoughts^ 
my dear children,” replied his mother. “ I have thought long 
on this verse, and I am glad you have chosen it for discussion. 
Perhaps 3 *ou do not know, my little Joseph, that we must 
think to act ; that it is very seldom any good or bad action is 
performed without previous thought ; and, consequently, if we 
would be pure in act. we must commit our thoughts unto the 
Lord.” 

‘‘ But how are we to do this, mother?” asked Leah. 

“ By constant prayer, ray love ; by endeavouring, wherever 
we are, jr whatever we may be doing, to remember God knows 
our every thought before it has words, and long before it be 
comes action. We are apt, perhaps, to indulge in the wildest 
thoughts, simply because we imagine ourselves secure from all 
observation. From human observation we are secure, but 
not from our Father who is in heaven ; and therefore we should 
endeavour so to train our thoughts as to banish all which W6 
dare not commit unto our God.” 

“ But are there not some things, dear aunt, too trivial, 
too much mingled with earthly feelings, to bring before a Be- 
ing of such ineffable holiness and purity ?” inquired Sarali in 
a, voice which, notwithstanding all her efforts, audibly fal- 
tered. 

“ Ah, that is what I want so much to know,” added 
Joseph. 

‘•You must not forget, my dear Sarah,” resumed Mrs, 
Perez, “ that our God is a God of love and compassion, as 


3C 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


infinite as His holiness ; that every throb of pain or joy in tli6 
creature His love has formed, is felt as well as ordained by 
Him. No nation has a God so near to them as Israel ; and 
we, of all others, ought to derive and realize comfort from the 
belief that He knows our nature in its strivings after right- 
eousness, as well as in its sin. He knows all our temptations, 
all our struggles, far better than our dearest earthly friends, 
and His loving mercy towards us is infinitely stronger. 
Therefore we can better commit our secret thoughts and feel- 
ings unto His keeping, than to that of our nearest friends on 
earth.” 

“ And may children do this, mother ?” 

“ Yes, dear boy ; our Father has children in His tender 
care and guiding, even as those of more experienced age. 
Accustom yourselves, while engaged in thought, to ask, ‘ Can 
I ask my Father’s blessing on these thoughts, and on the ac- 
tions they lead to V and rest assured conscience will give you 
a true answer. If it say, ‘No,’ dismiss the trifling or sinful 
meditations on the instant ; send up a brief prayer to God for 
help, and He will hear you. If, on the contrary, conscience 
approve your thought, encourage it, as leading you nearer, 
closer, and more lovingly to God.” 

“ But is not this close communion more necessary for 
women than for men, mother?” inquired Simeon. 

“ \V omen may need it more, my dear boy ; but believe me 
it is equally, if not more necessary for man. Think of the 
many temptations to evil which men have in their intercourse 
with the world ; the daily, almost hourly call for the conquest 
of inclination and passion, which, without some very strong 
incentive, can never be subdued. One unguarded moment, 
and the labour of years after righteousness may be annihilated. 
Man may not need the comfort of this close communion so 
much as woman, but he yet more requires its strength. No- 
thing is so likely to keep him from sin as committing his 
thoughts even as his actions unto the Lord.” 

“ Thank you, my dear mother ; that first bit is clear,” 
said J oseph. “ Now, I want the second ; the third is the most 
puzzling of all, but we shall come to that by and bye.” 

“You surely know what it means by to ‘trust in Him, 
Joseph?” said Leah. 

‘- I think I do, sister mine, for it was mother’s humbls 
trust in the Lord that supported her in her sorrows ; that I 
saw, I felt, though I was a child ; but — ” he hesitated 

“ Well, my boy?” 


THE PEREZ FAmLY. 


3i 


“To trusty 1 think, means to have faith. Now, Henry 
Stevens said the other day, Jews have no faith — and how can 
we trust then ?” 

“ My dearest Joseph, do not let your companions so mis- 
lead you,” answered his mother, earnestly. “ I know that is 
a charge often brought against us ; but it is always from those 
who do not know our religion, and who judge us only from those 
who, by their words and actions, condemn it themselves. The 
J ew must have faith, not only in the existence of God, but in 
the sacred history our God inspired, or ne is no Jew. He 
must feel faith — believe God hears and will answer, or' his 
prayers, however fervent, are of no avail. Without faith, his 
very existence must be an enigma, and his whole life mis- 
ery. Oh, believe me, my dear children, as no nation has God 
so near them, so no nation has so much need of faith, and no 
nation has so experienced the strength, and peace, and fulness 
which it brings.” 

“ But how does our verse mean that we are to trust in the 
Lord, mother?” asked Buth. 

“ It belongs both to the first and last division of the verse, 
my love. If we commit our ways unto the Lord, and trust 
also in Him (remember one is of no avail without the other), 
then He will bring it to pass.” 

“ Ah ! that is it. I am so glad we have come to that,” 
sagerly exclaimed Joseph. “ Mother, does it mean, can it 
mean that our Father will grant our prayers, will give us 
what we most wish ?” 

“ If it be for our good, my boy ; if our wishes be accept- 
able in His sight; if they will tend to our eternal as well as 
our temporal welfare; and we bring them before Him in un- 
failing confidence, believing firmly that He will answer in His 
own good time— we may rest assured that He will answer us, 
that He will grant our prayers.” 

“ But that which is for our good may not be what we most 
wish for,” resumed Joseph, despondingly. 

“ But, my boy, if what we wish for is not for our good, ia 
it not more merciful and kind to deny than to grant it? Ee- 
member, God knows us better than we know ourselves ; and 
we may ask what would lead us to evil temporally and cter- 
nall 3 ^ If, for a wise and merciful purpose, even our good de 
sires are not granted, be assured that peace, strength, ai d heal 
ing will be given in their stead.” 

The little circle looked very thoughtful as the impressive 
voice of the widow ceased. 


) 


82 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


Sarah seemed more than usually moved ; for, as she bent 
over her little Bible, which she had opened at the verse, tears 
one by one fell silently upon the page. Whether Ruth heard 
them drop, or from her seat close by her cousin, felt that the 
hand she caressingly held trembled, we know not, but the child 
rose, and threw her little arms around her neck. 

“ Do you remember who it was wrote the verse we are 
considering?” said the widow, after a pause. 

“ King David,” answered Joseph and Simeon together. 

“ Then you see it was no prosperous monarch, no peaceful 
lawgiver, but one whose life had passed in trials, compared to 
which our severest misfortunes must seem trifling. Hunted 
from place to place, in daily danger of his life, compelled even 
to feign madness, separated from all whom he loved, from 
all of happiness or peace, even debarred from the public ex- 
ercise of his faith, his very prayers at times seemingly un- 
heeded — yet it is this faithful servant of God who exclaims, 
‘ Commit your ways unto the Lord ; trust also in him, and he 
will bring it to pass.’ We know not the exact time he wrote 
these words ; but we know he wrote from experience ; for did 
not God indeed bring happiness to pass for him? If we 
think of the life of him who wrote these blessed words, as well 
as the words themselves, we must derive strength and comfort 
from the reflection.” 

“ Yes, yes ; I see and feel it all now,” exclaimed Joseph, 
eagerly as before. “ Oh, mother, I can think about it now 
without any puzzling at all. I am so glad. Cannot you, 
Ruth ?” 

“ Hush !” answered the child, as she suddenly started up 
in an attitude of attentive listening. Hush ! I am sure that 
is Reuben’s step : he is coming, he is coming. Oh, what joy 
for me !” 

You are wrong, dear; and it only disappoints mother 
said Leah, gently. 

“ N 0, no ! I know I am not. There — listen ; do you not 
hear steps now ?” 

“ Yes: but how can you be sure they are his?” answered 
Simeon. “ It is so very unlikely, I should have thought of 
^verybod}^ else first,” 

Ruth made no answer ; but she bounded from the room, 
and had opt^ned the street-door, regardless of Leah^s en- 
treaties to wait at least till the steps came nearer. A very 
few minutes more, and all doubts were solved by the en 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


33 


trance of Ruth, not walking, hut clinging round her brother 
Reuben’s neck, and almost stifling him with kisses, only in- 
terrupting herself to say, “ Who was right, Miss Leah and 
Master Simeon ? Ah, you did not have Reuben for long 
weeks to attend and nurse, as I had, or you would have 
icnown his step too.” 

“ You can love me still, then?” murmured her brother, as 
only to be heard by her ; then added aloud, “ my mother 
should have had the first kiss, dearest ; let me ask her bless- 
ing, Ruth.” 

She released him, though she still held his hand ; and hast- 
ening to his mother, he bent his head before her. 

Is it too late to ask my mother’s Sabbath llessing?” ho 
said, and his voice was strangely choked. “ Ble‘?s me. dearest 
mother, as you used to do.” 

The widow rose, and, laying her hands upon his head, re- 
peated the customary Hebrew blessing, and then folded him 
to her heart. 

“ It is never, never too late for a mother’s blessing — a 
mother’s love, my Reuben,” she said, her voice quivering with 
the efforts she made to restrain her emotion. “ I could have 
wished it oftener and earlier asked on the Sabbath eve ; but 
it is yours, my boy, each night and morning, though you hear 
it not.” 

“ And will it always be ? Mother ! mother ! will you nev- 
er withdraw it from me? No, no, you will not. You love 
me only too, too well,” and abruptly breaking from her, after 
kissing her passionately, he turned to greet his brothers and 
sisters. 

All met him cordially and affectionately, except perhaps 
that there was 'a stern look of inquiry in Simeon’s eyes, which 
Reuben, from some unexpressed feeling, could not meet ; and, 
looking from him, exclaimed — 

“ Sarah ! where is my kind cousin Sarah? will she not give 
me welcome ?” 

She was here this moment,” said Leah ; “ where can she 
have vanished ?” 

'• Not very far, dear cousin : I am here. Reuben, can you 
believe one moment that I do not rejoice to see you once 
again at home ?” said Sarah, advancing from the farther side 
of the. room, and placing her hand frankly in her cousin’s, 
looking up in his face with her clear pensive eyes, but cheeks 
as pale as marble. 


34 


THE PEREZ FAMII.T. 


Keuben pressed her hand -within his o-wn, tried to meet 
smilingly her glance, and speak as usual; but both efforts 
®ailed, and again he turned away. 

“ And he has come to stay with us — he will not learo 
as in a hurry again,” said the affectionate little Ruth, keep- 
ing her seat on his knee, and nestling her head in his bosom. 
“ I wanted but you to make this evening quite, quite happy.” 

Reuben kissed her, to conceal a sigh, and controlling him- 
wlf, he entered cheerfully and caressingly into all Ruth and 
J oseph liad to tell, called for all interesting information from 
the other members of his family, and imparted many particu- 
lars of himself. He was rising high in the world, had been 
the fortunate means of preventing a great loss to the firm of 
which he was a servant, and so raised his salary, and himself 
in the estimation of his employers. Fortune smiled on him, 
he said, in many ways, and he had had the happiness of se- 
curing a trifling fund for his mother, which, though small, was 
sure, and would provide her yearly with a moderate sum. 
He had something else to propose, but there would be time 
enough for that. His mother blessed and thanked him ; but 
her heart was not at rest. Cheerful as the conversation was, 
happy as the last hour ought to have been, there was a dim 
foreboding on her spirit which she could not conquer. Some- 
thing was yet to be told : Reuben was not at peace ; and when 
indeed he did speak that something, it was with a confused 
more than a joyous tone. 

“ I do not know why I should delay telling you of my in- 
tention, mother,” he said at length : I have had too many 
proofs of your affection to doubt of your rejoicing in any- 
thing that will make my happiness — I am going to be mar- 
ried.” 

There was a general start and exclamation from all but two 
in the group — his mother and cousin. 

“ If it will make your happiness, my son, I do indeed re- 
joice,” the former said -^ry calmly. “ Whom do you give me 
for another daughter ?” 

“ You do not know her yet, mother; but I am sure you 
will learn to love her dearly: it is Jeanie Wilson, the only 
child of my fellow-clerk.” 

‘‘Jeanie Wilson! — a Christian I Reuben, Reuben, how 
hive you fallen I” burst angrily, almost fiercely, from Simeon ; 
but it is folly to be surprised — I knew it would be so.” 

“ Indeed ! wonderfully clear-sighted as you were then, if 


THE PEREZ FAMLY. 


35 


you coDsider such a union humiliation, it would have been 
more brotherly, perhaps, to have warned me of the precipice 
on which I stood,” answered Reuben, sarcastically. 

“ Yes ! you gave me so fair an opportunity to act a broth 
cr’s part ; never seeking me, or permitting me to seek you, for 
weeks together ; herding with strangers alone — following them 
alike in the store and in the mart — loving what they love, do- 
ing as they do — and, like them, scorning, despising, and perse- 
cuting that holy people who once called you son — forgetting 
your birthright, your sainted heritage — throwing dishonour on 
the dead as on the living, to link yourself with those who as- 
suredly will, if they do not now, despise you. Shame, foul 
shame upon you !” 

Have you done?” calmly inquired Reuben, though the red 
spot was on his cheek. “ It is something for the elder to be 
bearded thus by the younger. Yet be it so. I have done 
nothing for which to feel shame — nothing to dishonour those 
with whom I am related. If they feel themselves dishonoured, 
let them leave me ; I can meet the world alone.” 

“Aye, so far alone, that you will rejoice that others have 
cast aside the chains of nature, and given you freedom to fol- 
low your own apostate path unquestioned and unrebuked.” 

“ Peace, I command you !” exclaimed the widow, with a 
tone and gesture of authority which awed Simeon into silence, 
and checked the wrathful reply on Reuben’s lips. “ My sons, 
profane not the Sabbath of your God with this wild and wick- 
ed contention. Simeon, however you may lament what Reu- 
ben has disclosed, it is not your part to forget he is your broth- 
er— yes, and an elder brother — still” 

“ I will own no apostate for my brother !” muttered the 
still irritated 5mung man. “ Others may regard him as 
they list ; if he have given up his faith, I will not call him 
brother.” 

“ I have neither the will nor occasion to forswear my 
faith,” replied Reuben, calmly. “Mr. Wilson has made no 
sondition in giving me his daughter, except that she may fol- 
low her own faith, which I were indeed prejudiced and foolish 
to deny. He believes as I do; to believe in God is enough — 
all religions are the same before Him.” 

“ That is to say, he is, like yourself, of no religion at all,” 
rejoined Simeon, bitterly. “ Better he had been prejudiced, 
rigid, even despising us as others do; then this misfortuna 
would not have befallen us.” 


36 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


‘‘Is it a misfortune to you, mother? Leah — lluth — Jo 
seph, will you all refuse to love my wife? You will not, can- 
not, when you see and know her.” 

“ As your wife, Reuben, we cannot feel indifference to- 
ward< her,” replied Leah, tears standing in her eyes; “yet il 
you had brought us one of our own people, oh, how much 
happier it would have made us !” 

“ And why should it, my dear sister? Mother, why should 
it he such a source of grief? I do not turn from the faith ol 
my fathers ; I may neglect, disregard those forms and ordi- 
nances which I do not feel at all incumbent on me to obey, 
but I must be a Jew — I cannot believe with ^lie Christian, 
and I cannot feel how my marriage with a gentle, loving, and 
most amiable girl can make me other than I am. We are in 
no way commanded to marry only amongst ourselves.” 

‘’ You are mistaken ; we are so commanded, my dear son. 
In very many parts of our Holy Law we are positively forbid- 
den to intermarry with the stranger ; and, as a proof that so 
to wed was considered criminal, one of the fiist and most im- 
portant points on which Ezra and Nehemiah insisted, w'as the 
putting away of strange wives.” 

“ Rut they were idolaters, mother. Jeanie and I worship 
the same Grod.” 

‘’ Rut you do not believe in the same creed, and therefore 
is the belief in one God more dangerous. We ought to keep 
ourselves yet more distinct, now that we are mingled up 
amongst those who know God and serve Him, though not as 
we do. You do not think thus, my dear son; and therefore 
all we may do is but to pray that the happiness you expect 
may be realized.” 

“ And in praying for it, of course you doubt it, though 1 
still cannot imagine why. Sarah, you have not spoken : do 
you believe me so terrible a reprobate that there is no chance 
for my happiness, temporally and eternally?” 

He spoke bitterly, perhaps harshly, for he had longed for 
her to speak, and her silence strangely, gainfully reproached 
him. He did not choose to know why, and so he vented in 
bitter words to her the anger he felt towards himself. 

“ My opinion can be of little value after my aunt’s,” she 
answered, meekly; “but this believe, dear cousin, if you and' 
Jeanie are only as blessed and happy together as I wish jou, 
you will be one of the happiest couples on earth.” 

“ I do believe it !” he said, passionately springing towards 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


37 


her. and seizing both her hands. “ Sarat, dear Sarah, forgive 
me. I was harsh and bitter to you, who were always my bet* 
ter angel ; say you forgive me !” He repeated the word, 
with a strong emphasis upon it. 

‘‘ I did not know that you had given me anything to for- 
give, Iteuben,” she replied, struggling to smile ; “ but if you 
think you have, I do forgive you from my very heart.” 

Bless you for the word !” he said, Still gazing fixedly in 
her face, which calmly met his look. 

“ Thank God, one misery is spared me,” he muttered to 
himself ; then added, “ and you think I may be happy ?” 

‘‘ I trust you will ; and if it please God to bless you with 
prosperity, I think you may.” 

How do you mean?” 

“ That while all things go smoothly, you will not feel the 
division, the barrier which your opposing creeds must silently 
erect between you. But if' affiiction, if death should happen, 
Beuben, dearest Keuben, may you never repent this engage- 
ment then.” 

The young man actually trembled at the startling earnest- 
ness of her words. 

“ And will you — surely you will not — marry in church, 
brother?” timidly inquired Joseph. 

“ He must, he cannot help himself!” hoarsely interposed 
Simeon, who had remained sitting in moody silence for some 
time ; “and yet he would say he is no apostate, no deserter 
from our faith.” 

“You said you had something to ask mother, Beuben,” 
said Buth, pressing close to his side, for she feared the pain- 
ful altercation between her brothers might recommence. 

“ I had,” he answered, “ but I fear it is useless now. 
Mother, Jeanie and 1 hoped to have offered you a home — to 
have entreated you to live with us, and return to the comfort? 
which were yours; we should seek but to give you joy. But 
after what has passed this evening, I fear we have hoped in 
vain.” 

“ I wonder you dared hope it.” muttered Simeon. “ "Would 
our mother live with any one who lives not as a Jew, whose 
dearest pride is to seem in all points like the stranger with 
whom he lives ?” 

“ Thank you for the kind will, my dear son,” replied the 
widow, affectionately, though sorrowfully; “but you are, right 
in thinking it cannot be. I am too old and too ailing to 


38 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


mingle now with strangers. I cannot leave my own lowlj 
dwelling ; I cannot give up these forms and ordinances which 
1 have learned to love, and believe obligatory upon me. 
Bring your wife to me, if indeed she does not scorn your 
poor Jewish mother; she will meet but love from me and 
mine. 

Reuben flung himself impetuously on her neck, and she 
felt his whole frame tremble as with choking sobs. His sis- 
ter, Sarah, and Joseph reiterated their mothers words ; Simeon 
alone was silent. Another half-hour passed — an interval pain- 
ful to all parties, despite the exertions of Sarah and the 
widow to make it cheerful, and then Reuben rose to depart. 
His affectionate embrace, his warm “ Gooa night, God bless 
you,” was welcomed and returned as warmly by all, and then 
he looked for Simeon. The youth was standing at the far- 
ther end of the apaitment, in the deepest shadow, his arms 
folded on his breast, his lip compressed, and eyes fixed sternly 
on the ground. 

“ Simeon !” exclaimed Reuben, as he appoached him with 
frankly extended hand, “ Simeon ! we are brothers ; let us part 
friends.” 

“ Give up this intended marriage, come back to the faith 
you have deserted, and we are brothers,” answered Simeon, 
sternly. “ If not, we are severed, and for ever.” 

“ Be it as you will, then,” answered Reuben, controlling 
anger with a violent effort. “ Should you need a brother or 
a friend, you will find them both in me ; the God of our fathers 
demands not violence like this.” 

“ He does not — He does not. Simeon, I beseech, command 
you, do not part thus with your brother ; on your love, your 
duty to me, as your only remaining parent, I command this,” 
his mother said, mildly, but imperatively ; but for once she 
spoke in vain. Leah, Sarah, Joseph, all according to their 
different characters, sought to soften him ; but the dark cloud 
only thickened on his brow. At that moment a light form 
pressed through them all, and clasping his knees, looked up in 
that agitated face, as if those sightless orbs had more than 
common power — and Ruth it was that spoke. 

“ Brother,” she said, in her clear, sweet voice, “ brother, 
our father bade us love our brother, even if he turned aside 
from all we hold most sacred and most dear. We stood 
around his death-bed, and we promised this — to love him to the 
end. Brother, you will not break this vow? No, no, our 
father looks upon us, hears us still !” 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


39 


There was a strong and terrible struggle on the part of 
Simeon, and a heavy groan of repentant anguish broke from 
the very heart of Reuben. 

“ My father, my poor father ! did he so love me ? And 
will you still hate me, Simeon he gasped forth. 

Another moment, and the brothers were clasped in each 
other’s arms. 


CHAPTER III. 

It had been with the most simple and heartfelt faith, that the 
widow Perez had sought to instil the beautiful spirit breathing 
in the verse forming the subject of their Sabbath conversation 
in the hearts of her children. Yet ere the Evening closed, how 
sadly and painfully had her faith been tried, and how bitterly 
did she feel that to her prayers there seemed indeed no answer. 
It was her firstborn whom she had daily, almost hourly “ com- 
mitted to the Lord for him she sought with her whole heart, 
to trust” that He would, in His deep mercy, awaken her boy 
to the error of his ways ; but did it appear as if indeed the 
gracious promise would be fulfilled, and the Lord would indeed 
“ bring it to pass ?” Alas ! farther and farther did it now seem 
removed from fulfilment. By his marriage with a Gentile what 
must ensue ? — a yet more complete estrangement from his 
father’s faith. 

The mother’s heart indeed felt breaking ; but quiet and 
ever gentle, who but her loving children might trace this 
bitter griefs And there were not wanting very many to give 
the mother all the blame of the son’s course of acting. “What 
else could she expect by her weak indulgence ?” was almost 
universally said. “ Why did she not threaten to cast him 
off, if he persisted in this sinful connection, instead of en- 
couraging such things in her other children, which of course 
she did, by receiving Reuben as usual? Why had she not 
commanded him, on peril of a parent’s curse, to break off the 
intended match? Then she would have done her duty ; as it 
was, it would be something very extraordinary if all her other 
children did not follow their elder brother’s example.” 

The widow might have heard their unkind remarks, but 
she heeded them little ; for she had long learned that the 
spirit guiding the blessed religion which she and her husband 


THE TEREZ FAMILY. 


iO 

had felt and practised, was too often misunderstood and un 
dervalued by many of her co-religionists ; the idea of lovo. 
bringing back a wanderer was, by the many, thought too per- 
fectly ridiculous ever to be counted upon. But her conscience 
was at rest. None but her own heart and her God knew how 
she had striven to bring up her firstborn as he should go, or 
how agonizing she had ever felt this failure of her struggles 
and prayers in the conduct of her son, and this last act more 
agonizing than all. She knew, aye, felt secure, that neither 
of her other children needed severity towards Beuben to pre- 
vent their following his example. In them she saw the fruits 
of her efforts in their education, and she knew that they felt 
their brother’s wanderings from their beloved faith too sor- 
rowfully ever to walk in his ways. They saw enough of their 
poor mothers silent, uncomplaining grief, to suppose for a 
moment'' that her absence of all harshness towards Beuben 
proceeded from her approval of his marriage ; and each and 
all lifted up the fervent cry for strength always to resist such 
fearful temptation, and to adhere to the faith of their fathers, 
even until death. 

We are quite aware that, by far the greater number of 
our readers, widow Perez will be either violently condemned 
or contemptuously scorned as a weak, mean-spirited, foolish 
woman. We can only say that if so, we are sorry so few 
have the power of understanding her, and that the loving 
piety, the spiritual religion of her character -should find so 
faint an echo in the Jewish heart. The comequences of her 
forbearance will be too clearly traced in our simple tale, to 
demand any further notice on our own part. We would only 
ask, with all humility, our readers of every class and grade, 
to recall any one single instance in which parental violence 
and severity, even coupled with malediction, have ever suc- 
ceeded in bringing back a wanderer to his fold ; if so, we 
will grant that our idea of love and forbearance effecting 
more than hate and violence is both dangerous and false. 
But to return to our tale : 

There was another in that little household bowed like the 
mother in grief Sarah had believed that it was her care for 
Beuben’s spiritual welfare which had engrossed her so much 
— that it was as distinct from him temporally as from herself 
A rude shock awakened her from this dream, and oh, so 
fearfully ! The wild tumult of thought pressing on her heart 
Mid brain needs no description. From the first year of iiei 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


43 


residence -with her aunt, Reuben had been dear to her; 
affection so strengthening, increasing with her growth, so 
mingled with her being, that she was unconscious ot* its power. 
And now that consciousness had come — the prayers, the 
wishes of a lifetime were dashed down unheard and unre- 
garded — could she believe in the soothing comfort of that 
inspired promise ? Had she not committed her ways? had 
she not trusted ? and had it not proved in vain ? Sarah was 
young, had all the inexperience, the elasticity, and consequent 
impatience of early life ; and so it was, that while the mother 
trusted and believed, despite of all, aye, trusted her boy would 
yet be saved, to Sarah life w'as one cheerless blank ; her 
heart so chilled and stagnant, it seemed, as it were, the power 
of prayer was gone — there could be no darker woes in store. 
Perhaps her very determination to conceal these feelings from 
every eye increased the difficulties of self conquest. 

Day after day passed, and her aunt and cousins saw 
nothing different from her usually quiet, cheerful ways. It 
might be that they suspected nothing — that even the widow 
knew not Sarah’s trials were yet greater than her own. But 
at night it was that the effects of the day’s control were felt ; 
and weeks passed, and time seemed to bring no respite. 

“ You can trust, if you cannot pray,” the clear, still voice 
of conscience one night breathed in the ear of the poor suf- 
ferer, so strangely distinct, it seemed as if some spiritual 
voice had spoken. “ Come back to the Father, the God, who 
has love and tenderness for all — who loves, despite of indif- 
ference and neglect — who has balm for every wound, even 
such as thine. Doth He not say, ‘ Cast your burden on him, 
and he will sustain you; trust in his word, and sin no more?”’ 
It was strange, almost awful in the dead stillness of night, 
that low piercing whisper ; but it had effect, for the hot tears 
streamed down like rain upon the deathlike cheek ; the words 
of prayer, faint, broken, yet still trustful, burst from tliat sor- 
rowing heart, and brought their balm : from that hour the 
stagnant misery was at an end. Sarah awoke to duty, alike 
to her God as to herself; and then it was she felt to the full 
how unutterably precious was the close commune with the 
Father in heaven, which her aunt’s counsels had infu.sed. 
Where could she have turned for comfort, had she been 
taught to regard Kirn as too far removed from earth and 
earthly things to love and be approached ? 

Time passed. Reuben’s marriage took place at the time 


42 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


Appointed, and still with him all seemed prosperity. It was 
impossible to see and not to love his gentle wife. Still in 
seeming a mere child, so delicate in appearance, one could 
scarcely believe her healthful, as she said she was. It was, 
however, only with his mother and sisters that Reuben per- 
mitted her to associate. 

He called himself, at least to his mother, a son of Israel ; 
but all real feeling of nationality was dead within him — yet 
he was not a Christian, nor was his wife, except in name. 
They believed there was a Grod, at least they said they did ; 
but life smiled on them. He was not needed, and so they 
lived without Him. 

Simeon, true to his prejudices, would not meet his 
brother’s wife, nor did his mother demand such from him. It 
was enough that with Reuben himself, when they chanced to 
meet, he was on kindly terms. Ruth’s appeal had touched 
his heart, for the remembrance of his father was as omnipo- 
tent as his wishes had been during his lifetime. The inter- 
ests of the brothers, alike temporal as eternal, were, however 
too widely severed to permit confidence between them, and so 
they passed on their separate ways ; loving perhaps in their 
inward hearts, but each year apparently more and more divided. 

About six months after Reuben’s wedding, Sarah received 
a letter which caused her great uneasiness. Our readers may 
remember, at the conclusion of our first chapter, we men- 
tioned Isaac Levison having written to his daughter, stating 
he was again well to do in the world, and offering her afflu- 
ence and a cessation from all labour, if she liked to join 
him. We know also that Sarah refused those offers, feeling 
that both inclination and duty bade her remain with the ben- 
efactors of her youth, when they were in affliction and needed 
her ; and that, irritated at her reply, her father had cast her 
off, and from that time to the present, nearly three years, she 
bad never heard any thing of him. The letter she now re- 
eeived told her that Levison was in the greatest distress, and 
seriously ill. His suspiciously-amassed riches had been, like 
hia former, partly squandered away in unnecessary luxuries 
for house and palate, and partly sunk in large speculations, 
which had all failed ; that he was now too ill to do anything, 
or even to write to her himself, but that he desired his 
daughter to come to him at once. She had been ready 
enough to labour for others, and therefore she could not hesi- 
tate for him, who was the only one who had any real claim 
upon her 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


43 


“ The only one who can claim my labour,” thought, the 
poor girl, as she read the harsh epistle, again and again, 
‘‘ What should I have been without the beloved friends whom 
he thus commands me to leave? Yet he is my father ; he 
sent for me in prosperity — I could, I did refuse him then, but 
not now. No, no ; I must go to him now, and leave all, all I so 
dearly love,” and letting the paper fall, she covered her face 
with her hands and wept bitterly. 

“ Yet perhaps it is better,” she thought, after a brief inter- 
val of bitter sorrow ; “ I can never conquer this one consum- 
ing grief while I am here, and so constantly liable to see its 
cause. My heavenly Father may have ordained this in love ; 
and even if it bring new trials I can look up to Him, trust in 
Him still. I do not leave Him behind me — He will not 
leave me, nor forsake me, whatever I may be called upon to 
bear,” and inexpressibly strengthened by this thought, she 
was enabled, without much emotion, to seek her much-loved 
aunt, to show her letter and its mandate. The widow saw at 
a glance the duty of her adopted child, and though to part 
with her was a real source of grief, she loved her too well to 
increase the difficulty of her trial by endeavouring to dissuade 
her from it. 

“ You must go, my beloved girl,” she said, folding her to 
her heart ; “ but I trust it will be but for a short time. My 
home is yours, remember — always your home^ wherever else 
you may be, as only a passing sojourn. Your duty is indeed 
trying, but fear not, you will be strengthened to perform it.” 

Yet however determined were the widow and her family 
to control all weakening sorrow and regret, there was not one 
who did not feel the unexpected departure of Sarah as an in- 
dividual misfortune. Each was in some way or other so 
connected with her, that separation caused a blank in their 
affections ; and what then must have been her own feelings ? 
They parted with but one dear friend ; she from them all, to 
go amongst those with whom she had not one thought or feel- 
ing in common. 

But she who had worked so perseveringly for them, who 
had felt herself a child in blood as well in heart of the 
widow’s, that she had never thought of making a distinct pro- 
vision for herself, this unselfish one was not to leave them 
portionless , and with so much attention to her feelings did 
her aunt and cousins proffer their gifts, it was impossible, 
pained as she was, to refuse. They said, it would be long 


44 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


perhaps before she could find employment in her new home, 
and she might need it ; besides, it was not a gift, it was her 
due ; her earnings had all gone for them, and they offered 
but her rightful share. Reuben and his wife were not at 
Liverpool when Sarah was compelled to leave it ; and she 
rejoiced that it was so. 

We will not linger either on the day of parting or tho 
poor girl’s sad and solitary journey. Simeon went with her 
as far as Birmingham, and when he left her, the scene of 
loneliness, of foreboding sorrow, pressed so heavily upon her 
that her tears fell unrestrainedly ; but though her heart did 
feel desolate, she knew she was not forsaken. Her God was 
with her still, and He would in his own good time bring peace. 
She was obeying His call, by discharging her duty, and He 
would lead her through her dreary path. 

“ Fear not, Abraham, I am thy shield and exceeding great 
reward,” were the words in her little Bible, on which her 
eyes had that morning glanced, dim with tears — they could 
see but those ; again and yet again she read them, till they 
seemed to fix themselves upon her heart, as peculiarly^ and 
strangely appropriate to herself. Like Abraham, she was 
leaving home and friends, to dwell in what was to her a 
strange land, and the same God who had been with him, the 
God of Abraham and Israel, was her God also. “ His arm 
was not shortened, nor his ear heavy, that he could not save.” 
And oh, what unspeakable comfort came in such thoughts. 
Century on century had passed ; but the descendants of 
Abraham were still the favoured of the Lord, having, in the 
simple fact of their existence, evidence of the Bible truth. 
Sarah had often gloried in being a daughter of Israel, bul 
never felt so truly, so gratefully thankful for that holy privi 
lege as she did when thinking over the history of Abraham, 
and the promise made to him and his descendants, in her lone 
ly journey, and feeling to the full the comfort of the convic- 
tion that Abraham’s God was hers. 

It was a dull and dreary evening when Sarah entered the 
great city of London. The stage put her down about halt 
an hour’s walk from her destination, and she proceeded on 
foot, followed by a boy conveying her little luggage. She 
struggled hard to subdue the despondency again creeping 
over her, as she traversed the crowded streets, in which there 
was not one to extend the hand of kindly greeting. She felt 
almost jishamed, though she could not define why, that thji 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


45 


boy should see the low dark alleys which she was obliged to 
tread before she could discover where her father now lived, 
and when she did reach it, she stood and hesitated before the 
door, as if the house she sought could scarcely be there, it 
was such a wretched looking place. 

Her iimid kno k was unheard, and the impatient porter 
volunteered a tap, loud enough to bring many a curious head 
to the other doors in the alley, and hastily to open the one . 
wanted. A long curious stare greeted Sarah, from an old 
woman, repulsive in feature and slovenly and dirty in dress, 
who to Sarah’s faltering question if Mr. Levison lived there, 
somewhat harshly replied — 

•• Yes, to be sure he does ; and who may you be that wants 
him ? He is not at home, whatever your business i.s.” 

“ Did he not expect me, then ? I wrote to say t should 
be with him to-night,” answered Sarah, trying to conquer the 
painful choking in her throat. “ I thought he was too ill to 
go out.” 

Why, sure now, you cannot be his daughter !” was the 
reply, in a softened tone, and the woman looked at her with 
something very like pity. “ Come in with you, then, if you 
really are Sarah Levison ; send the boy away and come in.” 

Trembling from a variety of feelings, Sarah mechanically 
obeyed, giving the boy the customary fee ere she discharged 
him ; a proceeding which caused the woman to look at her 
with increased astonishment, and to exclaim, when Sarah was 
fairly in the dirty miserable room called a parlour, “ She can 
do that too, and yet she comes here. Sarah Levison, are you 
not a great fool ?” 

The poor girl started, fairly bewildered by the question, 
and looked at her companion very much as if she thought she 
had lost her wits. “ A fool !” she repeated. 

“ My good gill, yes. What have you left a comfortable 
house and kind friends and perhaps a good business for ?” 

“ To obey my father,” replied Sarah, simply. “ Did he 
not send to tell me he was ill, and wanted me ; that he was no 
longer the wealthy prosperous man that he was, and I must 
labour for him now “2 or have I been deceived, and is it all 
false,” she added, in accents of terror, as she grasped old 
Esther’s arm, and has .some one only decoyed me here?” 

No, child, no ; folks about here are bad enough, but no1 
as bad as that. Levison is poor enough, both in health and 
pocket, and wrote as you say ] but for all that, I say you are 
a fool for coming.” 


46 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


“ Was it not my duty?” asked Sarah. “ Oh. it was sad 
enough to leave all I love !” 

“ I dare say it was, dear, I dare say it was ” and the old 
woman’s face actually lost its repulsiveness, in such a strong 
expression of pity, that the desolate girl drew closer to her, 
and clasped her hand. “ And more’s the pity you should 
have left them at all. Duty — it is a fine sounding word ; but I 
don’t know what duty Levison can claim — he has never 
acted like a father, never done anything for you ; how can he 
expect you should for him ?” 

“ St/’l he is my father,” repeated Sarah. “ He sent for me 
when ne was prosperous ; and though I did not come, his 
kind wish was the same, and proved he did not forget me. 
Besides, even if he had, God’s plain command is, to honour 
our father and mother. We can scarcely imagine any case 
when this command is not to be obeyed ; and surely not when 
a parent is in distress.” 

“ You have learned fine feelings, my poor child. I hope 
you will be able to keep them ; but I don’t know, I tried to 
do my duty, God knows, when I was young and hearty, but 
now poverty and old age have come upon me, and I have left 
off caring for anybody or anything. It is better to take life 
as we find it, and hard enough it is.” 

“ Not if we believe and feel that God is with us, and will 
lead us in the end to joy and peace,” rejoined Sarah, 
timidly. 

Why, you cannot be so silly, child, as to believe that 
God,” her voice deepened into awe, “ cares for such miserable 
worms as we are, and would lead us as you say ?” 

‘ W e are taught so, and I do believe and feel it,” replied. 
Sarah, earnestly. 

Taught so ; where, child, where ?” reiterated old Esther 
eagerly. 

“ In God’s own book, the Bible,” answered Sarah. The old 
woman’s countenance fell. 

“ The Bible, child ! now that must be your own fancy. I 
never found it there, and I think I must have read it more 
than you have.” 

“ Have you looked for it ?” inquired Sarah, timidly, for 
she feared to be thought presumptuous. 

Looked for it — I don’t know what you mean. I read it 
every Saturday, the parts they tell us to read ; and I do noi 
find much comfort in them, for they seem to tell me God i& 
too far off to care for such as us.” 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


47 


“ Ob, do not, do not say so,” replied Sarab, witb nnaffect 
ed earnestness. ‘‘ Every word of that blessed book brings oui 
God near us as a tender and loving father — tells us w( 
are Ills children. He loves us, cares for us, bears all oui 
sorrows, feels for us more deeply than any earthly friend. 1 
am not very old, but I have learned this from His holy book; 
and so. I am sure, will you. Forgive me,” she added, meekly, 
taking the old woman’s withered hand, " I am too young 
perhaps to speak so to one old and experienced as you are.” 

“ Forgive you — you are a sweet angel !” hastily replied 
Esther, suddenly rising, and pressing Sarah in her arms. 
‘\Too good, too good, to come to such a house as this. God 
forbid you should have such trials as to make you doubt what 
you now so steadfastly believe ; the more you talk, the more 
I wish you had not come.” 

“ But why do you regret it ? What is it I must expect ? 
Pray tell me ; be my friend. I have none on earth near me 
to love me now.” 

“ I wish 1 could be a friend to you, poor child, but I am 
of little service now, and you can better tutor me than I can 
you. It is a hard thing to say to a child of her own father, 
but you are too good for such as he.” 

Oh, no, no ; pray do not say so. Tell me, only tell me 
I may love my father !” entreated Sarah. 

“ You cannot, child ; you have been used to kindness and 
love, you will find harshness and anger ; you have only asso- 
ciated with religion and virtue, you have come to miserv and 
vice. As the niece of the worthy widow Perez, you have 
been respected, and always found employment ; as the daugh- 
ter of Isaac Levison, you will be shunned, and may be left to 
starve. It is hard enough to find employment for children 
of respectable parents amongst us poor Jews; and so how 
can we expect it for others 1 Don’t cry, dear : it is sad 
enough, but it is only too true ; and so I grieve you have 
given up even your character to come here.” 

“ But what can I do — what can I do ?” repeated Sarah, 
lifting up her streaming eyes with an expression which almost 
brought tears to those of Esther. “ Could I desert my own 
father, and I heard he needed me ? Is he not in poverty 
and distress? And is his own child to forsake him because 
others do ?” 

‘‘ Poor he is, child, and so are most of us. But how can 
vou help him ?” 


4P 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


Can I not work for him as I did for my annt?” 

“ Yes ; if you can get employment, which will not he Tcry 
easy. You are known in Liverpool, and you are not in Lon- 
don ; and the few trades in which we poor Jews can work 
are overstocked. Take old Esther’s advice — return as you 
came ; your father will never know you have been here, and 
you may be sure I will not betray you. Go back to your 
happy home and kind friends : it cannot be your duty to give 
up happiness for misery ; and as he forsook you, your con- 
science can be quite at rest in your leaving him. Do not 
hesitate, my good child ; go at once : he has no claim upon 
you.” 

There are some who doubt the necessity of daily prayer ; 
that we need not pray against temptation, there being so few 
times in which any great temptation is likely to assail us. 
Great temptations to sin perhaps we seldom have, but small — 
oh, of what hour can we be secure? Little did poor Sarah 
imagine, when she entered that lowly roof, the almost over- 
powering temptation which was to assail her. The home of 
peace, cleanliness, and comfort which she had deserted ; the 
beloved friends of her youth ; the happy hours that were 
gone ; all rose so vividly before her, conjuring her to return to 
them, not to devote herself to misery — which, after all, was 
but a doubtful duty — that her first impulse was indeed to fly 
from a scene where everything around her confirmed old Es- 
ther’s ominous words. But Sarah was no weak, wavering child 
of impulse ; her principles were steady, her faith was fixed, 
and the inward petition arose, with a fervour and faith which 
gave it power to penetrate the skies — 

“ Save me from myself, 0 God ! Do not forsake me now. 
Teach me my duty, the one straight path, and whatever may 
befall, let me abide by it.” 

The brief orison was heard, for the God of Israel has love 
and mercy for the lowest of his creatures, and strength was 
given. 

“No, Esther, no,” she answered mildly, yet firmly; “I 
will not turn aside, whatever may await me. God sees my 
heart, knows that I am here to do my duty, even if I be mis- 
taken in the means. He will strengthen me for its perform- 
ance. Do not try to frighten me away,” she added, trying to 
smile. “ I dare say all you tell me may be very true, and it 
will be difi&cult to bear ; but a good heart and a firm faith may 
make it lighter, you know. I want a friend sadly, and I fee. 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


49 


as if you would be a kind one ; your experience may smooth 
my way.” 

‘‘ Blessings on your sweet face for such words, my darling !” 
murmured the old woman ; it is long since old Esther has 
heard anything but abuse and unkindness. I wish I could do 
for you all my heart tells me ; but, deary me, that is a vain 
wish ; for I would take away all sorrow from you, and how can 
a poor creature like me do that?” 

Esther would have run on much more in the same strain, 
and Sarah felt much too grateful for the kind feeling, however 
rudely expressed, to check her, had not the old woman sudden- 
ly recollected the poor traveller might like some tea, which she 
hastened to prepare. It was, indeed, a different meal, both in 
quality and comfort, to that which, even in her uncle’s poorest 
days, she had been accustomed to ; but Sarah was too much 
engrossed in anxiety for her father to heed it, and only made 
the effort to partake of it, in gratitude to her companion. She 
had time to conclude her meal, and hear much concerning her 
father, before he appeared. Esther said he had been ill, but 
never seriously so ; that he could often have procured employ- 
ment in various humble ways ; but for some of them he was 
too proud, and in others behaved so as to disgust those who 
would have befriended him, and that he now literally had not 
a friend in the world, either amongst his superiors or his equals. 
It \vas a sad, sad tale ; and Sarah’s feelings, as she listened, 
may easily be imagined. But how could he live ? Old Es- 
ther really did not know. She lodged in the same house with 
him, but she knew little of his private concerns ; she only 
knew he was a wretched temper, which, of course, daily grew 
worse and worse. He went to the synagogue regularly ; that 
he did, but it did not seem to benefit him much. How could 
it, when his actions denied his prayers ? 

It was late before Levison returned. He was still a good- 
looking man, but miserably attired, and pale from recent ill- 
ness. He greeted his daughter with affection ; for in the low- 
est and most debased amongst Israel, that redeeming virtue is 
seldom found wanting ; and Sarah felt, as she looked on him, 
all the daughter glowing in her heart : that she could love, 
W"ik for, do anything for him. Little sleep had she that 
nis’ht ; not because her bed was hard, its covering coarse and 
unseemly, but from the many thoughts pressing on her mind. 
Her path was all dark; nothing but the unexpected warmth 
of her father’s welcome and old Esther’s kindness to make it 


50 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


light She could but trust and pray, not only for strength tfl 
meet her trials, but that she might so be blessed as to erase 
from her heart the pang which lingered in it still. 

Weary days passed ; often and often did Sarah’s spirit so 
sink within her, that she felt as if it could never rise again. 
Her father’s moroseness returned ; affection, in a character 
like his, could not obtain effective power over the evil habits 
of long years. Sarah could not realize that he loved her, 
and had it not been for her firm confidence in the love which 
was unending, pitying, strengthening, as the gracious Lord 
from whom it comes, her every energy must have failed. She 
exerted herself to effect a reformation in their dwelling and 
in her father’s slender wardrobe. To look on him, any one 
would have believed him a very mendicant' yet there were 
some few articles of clothing easily to be repaired, and so 
made decent ; and this Sarah did. Struck by her method, 
her perseverance, and the quiet, easy way in which she did 
everything, Esther Cardoza, old, and often ailing as she was, 
did not disdain to profit by her example ; she became more 
tidy, more careful, and was surprised to find that it was just 
as easy to be clean and neat, however poor her apparel, as 
the contrary, and for comfort, the one could not be mentioned 
with the other. One sweet source of pleasure Sarah indeed 
had. She had excited an ardent desire in the old woman’s 
mind to become thoroughly acquainted with God’s holy vol- 
ume ; and many an evening did they sit together, and Esther 
listened to the sweet pleading voice of her young companion, 
till she felt with her whole heart that God must be with Sa- 
rah ; she could not be the good, gentle, yet strong-minded 
creature she was, without His help ; and then came the 
thought and belief, that if she sought Him, He would be 
found too of her, unworthy and lowly as she was. Such a 
rich treasury of promises did Sarah open to her longing heart 
and eyes, that she often wondered how she could have been 
blind so long ; and she would thank and bless her with such 
strong feeling, that Sarah would feel with thankfulness, and 
chastened joy, in the midst of her own sorrows, that she had 
not left her own dear home in vain. 

“ I begin to think, dearie,” Esther one day said, “that 1 
must have been cross and harsh myself, which made fidka 
abuse me as they did ; since you have been here, X feel an 
altered creatui’e, and now meet with kindness instead oi 
wrong.’* 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


51 


“Perhaps you are more inclined to think it kindness/ 
said Sarah, smiling. 

Perhaps so, dear ; hut that is all your doing. Since you 
have read to me, and proved to me that God, even Abraham’s 
God, cares for and loves me, I am as happy again, and I 
think if He can love me, why, surely some of my fellow-crea 
turcs can too. They cannot be as unjust and harsh as I once 
thought them. What would have become of me if you had 
taken my advice, and gone home again 

“ Then you see, Esther, I was not sent here for nothing , 
humble as I am, I have made one fellow-creature happy.” 

“ You must make every one happy who talks with you, 
darling ; but I want you to be happy yourself, and you have 
not come here to be that. I’m thinking.” 

“ It is better for me that I should not be happy yet, 
Esther, or our Father would make me so. You know He 
could, with a word, and He will in His own good time. I 
did not think I should find one friend, but His love provided 
you.” Her voice quivered, and she threw her arms round 
old Esther’s neck, to hide and subdue her emotion, which 
kindness alone had power to excite. 

But though for Esthei she had been permitted to do so 
much, her father seemed neither to understand nor appreciate 
her ; and to change the opinions to which he so often gave 
vent, and which, from their strangeness and laxity, often ac 
tually appalled her, seemed to her utterly impossible. The 
sacred name of God was with him a common interjection, in 
troduced in every phrase ; it mattered not whether called for 
by anger or vexation, or any other feeling. Sarah shuddered 
with agony as she heard it — that awful name, which she never 
dared pronounce save with reverence and love, which should 
be kept far from all moods and tempers of sin — that name, 
the holiness of which was enjoined as strictly, as solemnly, as 
“ thou shalt not kill,” and “ thou shalt not steal.” She could 
not conquer the feeling which its constant and sinful use ex- 
cited, and once so horror-struck was her countenance, that her 
father marked it and demanded its cause. Tremblingly she 
told him, and a rude laugh was his reply, coupled with an in 
junction not to preach to him — words which ever checked her 
when, in his moments of irritation against the whole world 
and his own fate, she sought to comfort him by the religion of 
her own pure mind ; she gave up the effort at length, but she 
did not give up prayer She would not listen to the agonized 


52 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


supposition that for such as he even the long-suffering of an 
infinitely compassionate God would be of no avail. She prayed 
and wept for tliose who prayed not for themselves, and there was 
comfort in her prayer. 

But to pass her life in idleness was impossible. From the 
first week of her residence in London, she had sought for 
employment. Her father would not hear- of her living out, 
and so she endeavoured to find daily occupation, or to work 
at home. In both of these wishes, as old Esther had fore- 
boded, she failed. 

In the low neighbourhood where her father dwelt there was 
no one to employ her, and she had no friend to speak for her 
in the higher classes. In vain she had at first urged she must 
seek for a situation in a private family, as upper housemaid, 
lady’s maid, or nurse. Levison so raged and stormed at the 
first mention of the plan, that Sarah felt as if she never dared 
resume it. Yet as weeks passed, and the little fund she had 
brought from Liverpool would very soon be exhausted, some- 
thing must be done. Our readers, perhaps, think that her 
idea of the duty she owed her father went so far as even in 
this to obey him ; they are wrong if they do. Sarah’s mind 
was not of that weak cast which could not discern right from 
wrong. She knew it was a false and sinful pride which ac- 
tuated Levison’s refusal. “ Jews were Jews,” he declared, 
“ and one class should not serve the other ; his daughter was as 
good as any in the land, and she should not call any one mis- 
tress.” Mildly, jet firmly, Sarah resisted his arguments. We 
have not space to repeat all she said, but her father at length 
yielded, with an ill grace indeed, and vowing she should go 
nowhere unless they would let her come to him when he wanted 
her. But still he yielded, and Sarah thankfully pursued her 
plan. But, alas ! she encountered only disappointment ; 
there were no Jewesses established as milliners, dressmakers, 
or similar trades in London, and therefore no possibility of 
her getting occupation with them as she wished. She would 
not heed old Esther’s assurances that no one would take Jew- 
ish servants. Unsophisticated and guileless herself, she could 
not believe that her nation would refuse their aid and patron- 
age to those of their own faith ; and she strained every energy, 
she conquered her own shrinking diffidence, but all without 
effect. Again and again the fact of her being a Jewess com- 
pleted the conference at once. One said, Jewish servants 
were more plague than enough, they should never enter her 


THE PEllEZ FAMILY. 


53 


house. Another, that their pride and ignorance were beyond 
all bounds, and as for a proper deference towards their su' 
periors, a willingness to be taught or guided, it was not in 
their nature. Another, that a Jewish cook might be all very 
well, but for anything else it was quite out of the question ; 
they knew the low habits, the laziness and insolence that 
characterized such kind of people, and they certainly would 
not expose themselves to it with their eyes open. lu vain 
Sarah pleaded for a trial — that she was willing, most willing 
to be taught her duty ; that she was not wholly ignorant, and 
humbly yet earnestly trusted she was not proud. Her duty 
to her God had, she hoped, taught her proper deference to- 
wards her superiors on earth. Some there were who, only her 
superiors in point of fortune, stared at her with stupid surprise, 
and utterly unable to understand such pure and truthful feel- 
ings. sharply terminated their conference at once. Others 
would not even hear her. Some there were really superior in 
something more than fortune, and anxiouly desirous to alleviate 
distress and aid their poorer brethren, but they shrank from 
being the first to engage a Jewess as lady’s maid or nurse. 
Some, touched by her respectful and gentle manner, would 
have waived this, but when the question who was her father, 
was asked and answered, the most kindly inteutioned shrank 
back — it could not be. In vain she told them she had never 
been under his care, and offeied references to many respect- 
able families in Liverpool. A daughter of Levison was no 
fib servant for any respectable family ; they were sorry, but 
they could do nothing for her. 

Day after day, week after week thus passed, till even 
months had elapsed, and, despite her unwavering faith, Sarah’s 
weary spirit flagged. 

“ But why should it be?” she asked one day, as she sat 
by the rude bed to which poor old Esther was confined, and 
in answer to her observation, it was only what she had feared ; 

But why should it be?” there must be some reason for our being 
so shunned. Those of the stranger faith, of course, could not 
employ us ; but our own? — how much better and happier we 
might be if they would take us into their families, and unite 
us by kindness on the one hand, and obedience and faithful- 
ness on the other.” 

“ It certainly would make us happier, but we must be bet- 
ter fitted for it, Sarah, dear, before it can be accomplished,” 
replied the old woman, “ You don’t know anything of the 


54 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


majority of us here ; how mauy of us hate the very idea of 
going into service. What a dreadful deal of pride is amongst 
us, and such false pride ; we very often throw away those that 
would be our friends, and repay sometimes with abuse any 
kindness. Then, again, we want to be taught our proper 
duties. It is not enough to read our Bibles and prayer-books, 
because a great many are blinded to what they tell us. We 
want some one to explain them, and tell us plainly what we 
ought to do, and may do, without breaking our religion. Be- 
cause you see, dear, when we were in Jerusalem, some things 
must have been different to what they can be now ; and, as 
servants, we might be called upon to do some things which we 
think we ought not. Then, it is all very true about being 
lazy and sometimes insolent. We must set about doing all 
we can to be hinder to ourselves^ before we can expect any- 
body to be kinder to us. I see that now quite clearly, though 
I did not once ; but for you, darling, you are good enough 
for anybody to find a treasure in you. I wish I could help 
you ; there is one good, kind, charitable lady that I would 
send you to, but a sister of mine behaved so ungratefully to 
her, that I do not like intruding on her again. Si.e nearly 
clothed my sister’s little girl, and, would you believe it, Becky 
went to her house and abused her. What right, forsooth, had 
she to know that her child wanted cloth ” 

Sarah uttered an exclamation of surprise. 

“ Indeed, and yes, dear ; and so you see, though I had no- 
thing to do with it, I don’t much like to go to Miss Lem 
again ; but you might, though. I am sure she would do 
what she could for you.” 

Sarah eagerly inquired who this Miss Leon was. 

“ None of your very rich carriage people, dear ; indeed I 
don’t know how she contrives to do all the good she does, for 
she is not half as rich as many who think themselves poor. 
She finds out those who want help ; she employs all she possi- 
bly can ; she gets us work from others ; makes our interests 
hers ; teaches our girls all sorts of useful knowledge ; gives 
many a very poorfamily the meal on which they break their fast, 
and all such good acts ; comes amongst us, and, somehow or 
other, always does us good. I don’t know how many people 
she cured of rheumatism last winter, by supplying them with 
some doctor’s stuff and warm clothing. Then, as for the girls’ 
schools, I don’t know what would become of them without her; 
she gets them work, cuts out all they want, and teaches them often 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


55 


herself. She is a good creature, God bless her I lost a 
kind friend by Becky’s behaving as she did. for I never had 
the face to go to her again, and I would not have lier come tc 
this low place ; but that she would not mind, as she does not 
care for the world in doing good.” 

Sarah listened eagerly ; had she indeed found a friend ? 
yet she checked her rising hopes. Miss Leon might do her 
service, but might not have the power. Before she could make 
up her mind to seek her, she received, as was her .mstom, every 
mouth at least, a long letter from the dear home she had left ; 
she had stated her many disappointments to her aunt, and that 
beloved relative entreated her to return. * 

“ Tell your father,” she wrote, “ two-thirds you earn shall 
be honestly sent to him ; and you can better, much better, sup- 
port him here than in London. Entreat him to let you return 
to us — all our happiness is damped when we think of your 
heavy trials. Come to us, my love ; it can scarcely be your 
duty to remain any longer where you are.” 

Sarah read this letter to her father, hoping more than she 
dared acknowledge to herself, that he would see how much 
better it would be for her to return. But for this he was far 
too selfish. Sarah had so riveted all the affection which he was 
capable of feeling, that he would not let her leave him. He 
was jealous and angry that she should so love her absent friends, 
and swore that they should not take any more of her heart 
from him ; he would rather remain as he was, than she should 
work for him at Liverpool ; he did not want her labour, he 
wanted her love, and that she would not give him. Sarah sub- 
mitted with a strange feeling of consolation amidst her sorrow 
— did he indeed want her love? Oh, if she could but believe 
it, she might have some influence over him yet. 

Not long after this, as she was sitting reading one morning 
to poor old Esther that holy book, which was now as great a 
comfort to Esther as to herself, a lady unexpectedly entered, 
and before even she heard her name, Sarah guessed who she 
was. There was the decided manner and kind speech of which 
Esther , had spoken; the plain attire with which, to avert 
notice, she ever went her rounds of charity; and even had 
there been none of these peculiarities, the very fact of her 
con. mg to that poor place at all proclaimed Miss Leon. She 
gently upbraided the poor old woman for nob letting her know 
she was ill and needed kindness ; would not accept her plea 
that after her sister’s ungrateful conduct she could have no 


56 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


right to appeal to her, and by a very few judioions words sel 
Esther’s heart to rest. She inquired what her ailing wa.s, 
seemed to understand it at once, and promised soon to get her 
about again. 

“ God bless you, lady dear !” exclaimed the grateful 
creature, fervently ; only the other day was I talking about 
you and all you did ; not that I wanted you — for you see my 
threescore and ten years are almost run out, and it signifies 
little now if I sutler more or less — but for this poor girl, bless 
you. lady, you could do so much for her. I ought not to call 
her poor though, for in one sense God has made her rich 
enough, and she has been a good angel to me.” 

With a vivid blush of true modest feeling, that attracted 
Miss Leon’s penetrative eye at once, Sarah tried to check the 
old woman’s garrulity, but in vain. She would pour out all 
that Sarah had done for her, and wanted and suffered for her- 
self, and who she was, and how brought up, and where she 
came from. Miss Leon meanwhile had quietly taken a seat, 
and, without the smallest symptom of impatience or failing 
interest, listened to the tale. When it was concluded, she put 
some questions to Sara'h, the answers to which appeared much 
to please and satisfy her. She promised to do what she could, 
making, however, no professions that could excite delusive 
hopes, yet somehow, leaving such comfort behind her. that on 
her departure Sarah sought her own room to pour forth her 
swelling thanksgiving to God. 

Miss Leon never made professions, but she always acted. 
When it was known amongst her friends where she had been, 
and whose daughter she intended, if possible, to befriend, a 
complete storm of advice and w^arniug and censure had to be 
encountered, but Adelaide Leon was not to be daunted ; for 
advice she was grateful, but timidity and selfish consideration 
never entered her code of charity. She felt no fear of con- 
sequences whatever ; even had she to come in contact with 
Levison himself, she saw nothing very dreadful in it, and as 
for the censure, she smiled very quietly at the idea ; but when 
her conscience told her she was right, it mattered little what 
other people said. In a word, she did as most strong-minded, 
right people do — finally carried her point. She went to see 
Esther three times that week, and before a month had passed 
the old woman was able to sit up, doing a little knitting, 
which Miss Leon herself had taught her; and Sarah went 
sometimes four days in the week to work at the Square. 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


57 


A very brief period of intercourse convinced Mis'* Leon 
that Sarah certainly was a superior person, and her benevolent 
intentions did not terminate in merely getting her daily work. 
She had not enough in her own family to occupy her sufii- 
ciently, and many in her circle were too prejudiced to follow 
her good example. 

Now it so happened Miss Leon had a widowed sister, a 
Mrs. Corea, who had four little girls, and was in want of a 
young woman to attend on and work for them, and take care 
of them when they were not with her or their governess. . 
Genteel and modest in her manners, without a portion of 
pride or insolence, truly and unostentatiously pious, and 
withal better informed on many subjects than very many 
who profess a great deal, Sarah was just the tery person 
whom Miss Leon could desire to be with her nieces ; but ^he 
difficulties she had to contend with, before she accomplished 
the end, we have no space to dilate on. Mrs. Corea was 
about as weak-minded, prejudiced, and foolish as Miss Leon 
was the contrary. First, she had a horror of all low-born 
people, however they might be brought up ; and no one could 
say but that, if Sarah was Levison’s child, she was the very 
lowest of the low. Secondly, she could not have a Jewess ; 
she would give the children all sorts of superstitious, ignorant 
ideas, and was as helpless and exacting as any fine lady. 
And thirdly, and most convincing of all, in her own ideas, she 
did not like the plan, and would not have her ; what would 
people say too — doing what nobody else did ? 

Fortunately for our poor Sarah, Miss Leon never desponded 
when determined to do good ; the more difficulties she had 
to contend with, the more determined was she to carry her 
point, and, to the surprise of everybody, even in this she 
succeeded. Mrs. Corea yielded to perseverance. It was too 
much trouble to say “ no” any longer. She had seen no 
one that would do, and Adelaide had promised she would 
take all the blame, and answer everybody who meddled and 
found fault ; and if Sarah did not suit, why Adelaide would 
take the blame for that too, and never torment her to take a 
Jewess again. 

Sarah did not know all that Miss Leon had encountered 
in her cause, but she knew it was to her slie owed the com- 
fortable situation in which she was at length installed ; and 
the grateful girl not only prayed God to bless her benefac- 
tress, but to Mess her own efforts, that she might do her duij 


68 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


to ter young charge, and, in serving them, prove her gratitude 
to their aunt. 

With her father she had had at first a difficult part to play. 
He, of course, could not be allowed to come to the house to 
see her, and he had sworn she should go nowhere, where he 
might not be admitted. A voiceless prayer that his heart 
might be changed rose from Sarah’s heart, as she attempted 
to tell him of her plans ; and the prayer was heard, for, to 
her own astonishment, her gentle arguments and meek per- 
suasions were successful. His anger subsided at first into 
sullenness, then he seemed endeavouring to conceal some 
strong emotion, and at last, as she drew closer to him, 
trembling and fearful, conjuring his reply, he caught her in 
his arms, kissed her again and again, bade God bless her 
and spare her till he was a better man, when she would 
love him more. He knew she could not as he was ; but 
for her sake there was nothing she could not persuade him 
to do ; she did not know bow much he loved her, and, as 
Sarah sobbed from many varied feelings on his bosom, she 
thanked God that He had called her to her father, and 
permitted her even in the midst of sorrow and sin to cling to 
him still. 


CHAPTER IV. 

OuFw readers must imagine a period of eighteen months since 
we bade them farewell. But few changes had taken place. 
Leah, Simeon, and Joseph continued in their respective situa- 
tions, every year increasing their wages, and riveting the esteem 
and good-will of their employers. 

The widow might have had another home in a gayer part 
of the town, but she refused to leave the lowly dwelling she 
had so dearly loved, until Leah or one of her sons had a 
home, to keep which she was needed. One change in the 
widow’s household had indeed taken place, for Ruth was in 
London. Sarah’s excellent conduct had interested Miss 
Leon not only in herself, but in her family. As they were 
all comfortably providing for themselves. Miss Leon could 
find no object for her active benevolence but the little Ruth. 
The poor child had not indeed so many resources as many 
jimilaily afflicted, for though all were desirous, none knew 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


59 


how to teach her. It so happened Miss Leon was peculiarly 
interested in Kuth, because she had once had a sister who 
was blind ; one whom she had so dearly loved, that she had 
learned the whole method of tuition for the blind simply for 
that sister’s sake. She died just when she was of an age to 
know all that affection had done for her ; and Miss Leon 
now offered to impart all she knew to Ruth, to give her 
board and lodging at her house till she was enabled to earn 
something for herself, when she would herself send her to her 
mother. 

It was a hard struggle before the widow could consent to 
part with her darling ; but the representations of Leah and 
Simeon, and Ruth’s own yearnings to be able to do something 
for herself, overcame all selfish considerations. She could 
not feel Miss Leon a stranger, for her kindness to Sarah had 
made her name never spoken without a blessing, and Sarah 
would always be near Ruth to watch over and write of her ; 
and so with tears of thankfulness the widow consented. 
Leah was often permitted to take her work to the widow’s 
cottage and pursue it there ; and the little Christian girl, to 
whom Ruth and Sarah had been so kind, was delighted to 
come and do any cleaning or scouring in the house, or sit 
with the widow and work and read for her, to prove how 
grateful she was. 

And where was Reuben Perez all this while? Were his 
mother’s prayers for him still unanswered ? Alas ! farther 
and farther did they seem from fulfilment. He had left Liver- 
pool to accept, in conjunction with his father-in-law, the man- 
agement of a bank, in one of the smaller towns of Yorkshire, 
and, of course, even his casual visits were discontinued. Not 
that they were of much avail, going as he did ; but still his 
mother had hoped against her better reason, that while near 
her he would never entirely take himself away. Now that 
hope was at an end. He was thrown entirely amongst Gen- 
tiles, and Sabbaths and holidays seemed wholly given up. 
He did not often write home, but when he did, always affec- 
tionately ; and his mother’s allowance was regularly paid. 
She yearned to sec and bless him once again, but months, 
above a year passed, and his foot had never passed her 
threshold. 

With regard to Sarah, a very few months’ association with 
her, though only in the relative position of mistress and ser- 
vant, had completely conquered Mrs. Corea’s prejudices ; and 


60 


THE PEREZ FAMILY 


the very indolence and foolishness, which had originally beer 
BO difficult to overcome, were now as likely to ruin as they 
formerly had been to oppose. But fortunately Sarah was not 
one for indulgence and confidence to spoil ; indeed she often 
regretted her mistress’s indolence, from the responsibility it 
devolved on her. Mrs. Corea had repeatedly allowed herself 
to be cheated and deceived, because it was too much trouble 
to find fault. She often permitted the most serious annoy- 
ances in her establishment — keys and even money repeatedly 
lying about, her children neglected, their clothes often thrown 
aside long before they were worn out. In a very few months 
Sarah's ready mind discovered this state of things. One only 
she had the power of herself to remedy — the neglect of her 
charge; and so admirably did she do her duty by them, that 
Miss Leon felt herself amply rewarded. Finding it was of no 
use to entreat Mr.s. Corea to have more regard to her own 
interest, and not allow herself so repeatedly to be deceived, 
Sarah in distress appealed to Miss Leon, who quietly smiled, 
and assured her she would soon settle matters entirely to 
Mrs. Corea’s satisfaction. She did so, by giving to Sarah’s 
care almost the entire charge of the housekeeping, with strict 
injunctions to take care of her mistress’s keys and purse, 
whenever she saw them lying about. Sarah at first painfully 
shrunk from the responsibility, knowing well it would expose 
her yet more to the dislike of her fellow-servants, who, as a 
Jewess, already regarded her with prejudice. Mrs. Corea was 
charmed that such a vast amount of trouble was spared her ; 
telling everybody Sarah was a treasure, and she only won- 
dered there were not more Jewish servants. 

But our readers must not imagine that Sarah’s situation 
was all delightful. She had many painful prejudices to bear 
with, many slights and unkindness in her fellow-servants to 
forgive and forget, many jests at her peculiar religion, and 
ridicule at its forms — much that, to a character less gently 
firm and forbearing, would have led to such domestic bicker- 
ing and misery, that she would have been compelled to leave 
her place, or perhaps have been induced weakly to hide, if 
it did not shake her ^reverence for, the observance of her 
ancient faith. But Sarah had not read her Bible in vain 
She had not now to learn that such prejudice and scorn were 
of God, not of man. That He permitted these things, in His 
wisdom, to teach His people, though they were still His 
own, still His beloved, their sins had demanded chastisement^ 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


61 


and thus received it. That the very prejudice in which by 
the ignorant they were held, was proof of the Bible’s truth-- 
proof that they were His chosen and His firstborn ; and more 
consolatory still, that as the t/treatenings were thus fulfilled, 
so, ill His own good time, would be ]l\s promises. Sarah 
never wavered in the line of duty whicli she had marked out 
for herself — to make manifest that her faith was of God by 
actions.^ not by words ; and she so far succeeded, that after a 
while peace was established between her and her fellow- 
servants. They began to think, even if she were a heathen, she 
was a very harmless and often a very kind one, and there 
was not so much difiference between them as at first they had 
fancied. 

These are but trifling things to mention ; but we most par- 
ticularly wish our readers to understand that though good 
conduct will inevitably find reward even on earth, it is not to 
be expected that it will have no trials. Virtue and religion 
■will not. exempt us from suflfering, but they teach us so to 
bear them, that we can derive consolation and unfailing hope 
oven in the darkest hours; and, instead of raising a barrier 
between us and our God, they draw us nearer and nearer to 
Him, till we can realize His immeasurable love towards us ; 
and, tracing every suffering from His hand sent for our good, 
to love Him more and more, and in that very love find com- 
fort. Do not then let us practise religion and virtue because 
•we think they have power to shield us from all trial and sor- 
row, but simply for the love of Him who bids us practise them, 
and who has promised, i^ we seek Him, He will heal our sor- 
rows and heighten our joys. 

One unspeakable source of comfort Sarah had : it was that 
her influen ‘e with her father rather increased than lessened 
with him. Once every month she spent the Sabbath evening 
with him, and she felt that indeed he loved her. Old Esther told 
her, even that when she was absent he was an altered man. 
He sought employment, and after some difficulty found it, 
though it was of a kind so humble, that before Sarah came to 
town he would have spurned it as so derogatory to his pride, 
he would rather starve than have it ; but now it was welcome, 
because he would not be a burden on his Sarah. His Sarah ! 
— every dormant virtue seemed to spring into life with those 
dear precious words. The very interjections of that sacred 
name of God, which had been once ever on his lips, were now 
constantly checked. “ She does not like it, my angel Sarah^ 


62 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


and I will not say it,” Esther heard him mutter when the ao* 
customed phrase broke from him , and many other evil habits, 
that thought — “ my angel Sarah ” — had equal power to remove. 
The bad man seemed fast breaking from his sins, and it was 
from the influence of his gentle pious child. The father was 
at work within him, and God blessed him through that feeling, 
and through his daughter’s unceasing prayers. Every time 
Sarah visited him she saw more to hope, more for which with 
grateful tears to bless her God ; and each time to love him 
more, and feel she was yet more beloved. 

On Sarah’s returning home one afternoon, after a brief 
visit to old Esther, who was not quite well, she was informed 
a young man had called to see her, and stayed some time ; 
but as she did not come as soon as they expected, he had 
gone away, promising to return in the course of the evening. 
He had not left his name, they added ; but he seemed a gen- 
tleman, quite a gentleman, though one of her own nation, and 
was in the deepest mourning. Sarah was not one given to specu- 
lation or curiosity, though she did wonder who this gentleman 
could be, but quietly continued her usual employments. She 
had just finished dressing her young ladies to go with their 
mother to the theatre, and ran down to see them safely in the 
carriage, when the footman called out — 

“ Sarah, the gentleman has come again, he is waiting for 
you in the housekeeper’s room.” 

She went accordingly ; but her self-possession almost 
deserted her when, on looking up in the face of the stranger 
as she entered, she recognised at once her cousin Reuben — 
pale, thin, and worn indeed, but still himself, and it required 
a powerful effort, even in that strong and simple mind, to 
evince no feeling but surprise and welcome. 

Few words, however, at the first moment passed between 
them. Reuben sprang forward as she entered, and clasped 
both her hands in his, which were cold and trembling ; and 
she saw his lips quiver painfully, and, to her grief and almost 
terror, as she spoke to him he gradually let go her hands, 
and, sinking on the nearest chair, covered his face with his 
handkerchief, and wept like a child. 

I terrify you, dear cousin, do forgive me,” he said at » 
length, as he heard the gentle voice which sought to soothe 
him falter in spite of herself. “ Sarah, dear Sarah. I do not 
know why your kind voice should affect me thus. I cannot 
..ell you why I have come to grieve you with my grief, except 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


6S 


that when I least desired it, you were always kind and good 
and feeling, and gave me comfort when I could not console 
myself ; and my heart has so yearned to you now — now, 
when your own word has come to pass, to tell you you were 
right. In prosperity I might be happy, though God knows it 
was but a strange unnatural happiness; but in affliction — Sarah^ 
do you remember your own words 

She did remember them ; but she had no voice to repeat 
them then, and her quivering lip alone gave answer. Her cousin 
continued, almost choked with many emotions — 

“ ‘ If affliction, if death — may you never repent your en 
gagement then.’ These were the words you said ; and oh, how 
often, the last few months, have they returned to me. Afflic- 
tion has come, my own cousin ; affliction, oh, such affliction 
that God alone could send — death, even death !” The word 
was almost inaudible. 

“ Death !” repeated Sarah, startled at once into per- 
fect consciousness. She looked at his dress — the deepest 
mourning — and the words more fell from her than were 
spoken. “ Not Jeanie, your own Jeanie — tell me, it is 
not she?” Then, as she read his answer in the tighter pres- 
"sure of his hand, the convulsive movement of his lips, she 
threw her arms round him, and faintly exclaiming, “ Reuben, 
my poor Reuben, may God grant you His comfort !” burst 
into tears. 

Nothing is so true a balm to the afflicted as unaffected 
sympathy ; and Reuben roused himself from his own sorrow, 
to bless his cousin for her tears, yet bid her not weep for 
him. 

“ It is better thus, my gentle cousin. The God of my 
parents has revealed Himself to their sinful offspring, even 
in His chastening. I cannot tell you all now, dear Sarah ; 
how, even when life seemed all prosperous around me, there 
was still a void within— I was not happy. I had returned to 
virtue, turned aside from all irregular and sinful pursuits, 
kept steady to business, and in doing kind acts towards men ; 
and more still, I had a gentle being who so loved me, that 
she forced me into loving her more than when I first sought 
her ; for then, then — Sarah, do not hate me — I did but seek 
her, because I thought a union with a Christian would put a 
final barrier between me and the race I had taught myself to 
bate — would mark me no more a Jew ; and so for this, this 
dreadful sin, 1 banished feelings which had once been mine. 


64 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


Sarah do not ask me -what they were. Yet still, still, even 
when I did love my fair and gentle wife, when she lavished 
on me such affection it ought to have brought but joy, T WciS 
not happy. I was away from all who knew my birth and race ; 
the once hated name, a Jew, no longer hurt my ears ; courted, 
flattered, admired, Sarah, Sarah, was it not strange there was 
still that gnawing void 7” 

She looked up with streaming eyes. It was a void no 
* man could fill, dear cousin. You thought its cause was of 
earth, and sought with earth to fill it ; but now, oh, let us 
thank God, His image fills it now.” 

“ You have guessed aright, my Sarah, as you always dc ; 
but, oh, you know not all I endured before it was so filled. 
I tried to believe with my Jeanie and her father, but I could 
not. I attended their church at times, I listened to their 
doctrines, I read their books ; but no, no, God’s finger was 
upon me. I could not believe in any Saviour, any Redeemei*, 
but Himself ; and then that holy name, that sacred subject, 
which should be the dearest link between those that love, 
never found voice. We dared not read each other’s thoughts. 
When we married, you know Jeanie thought little of those 
things ; but she became acquainted with a' good and holy 
man, a pious minister of her own faith, and he made her 
think more seriously: and what followed? She loved mo 
more and more, but she knew I did not believe in that 
Saviour whose recognition she deemed necessary for my 
salvation, and so she drooped and drooped at the very time 
when nature demanded greater sustenance and support. In 
a few months I was a father. 0 God. the agony of that 
hour which should have been all bliss ! Then I felt in all 
its fulness there was a God, and I had neglected Him. My 
innocent babe might be snatched from me, as David’s was, 
for its father’s sin ; and how was I to avert this misery — 
how devote it to its God, as its mother believed ? I shud- 
dered. From that hour my Jeanie sunk, even though they 
. said she had recovered all effects of her confinement. Month 
after month I watched over her. I heard her clinging to a 
faith, a Siiviour, which to me was mockery^. I heard her call 
aloud for help and mercy from Jesus, not from God. Sarah, 
it is vain, 1 cannot tell you what those hours were. You can 
tell their anguish, for you warned me such might be.” He 
paused, every limb trembling with his emotion ; and Sarah, 
almost as much affected, entreated him not to harrow his feel- 
ings by such recollections any more. 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


69 


“ Bear -with me, dear cousin ; I shall be better, happier 
when all is told. I saw her look on our infant (tnank God, it 
was a girl !) with the big tear stealing down her pale face, and 
I knew of what she thought; yet I could not, I dared not 
give her the only promise that might be her comfort, and her 
love for me was so strong, so intense, she had no voice to ask 
it. At length, one evening, after Mr. Vaughan, the clergy- 
man, had been urging on her the necessity of her child re- 
ceiving baptism, she called me to her, and. laying her head on 
my bosom, conjured me to grant her last request, the only 
one, she said, she had ever feared to ask me. Her voice was 
faint from weakness, yet it thrilled so on my heart, that it was 
a struggle to reply, and conjure her not to say more. I knew 
what she would ask, but she interrupted me by sinking on her 
knees before me, and wildly reiterating her prayer, ‘ My child, 
my child! let her be made pure — let me feel I shall look upon 
her again. Reuben, my husband, have mercy on us all I’ 
Sarah, had that moment been all my punishment, it would 
have been enough. Why could I not feel then, as I had so 
often declared before, that all faiths were the same in the 
sight of God? Why could I not make this promise to the 
dying and beloved ? I know not, I know not now, save that I 
felt myself a father, and the immortal spirit of my child was 
of more value than my own had ever been. I raised her : I 
solemnly vowed that I would study both faiths — I would road 
with and listen to Mr. Vaughan, and if I could believe, my 
child should be reared a Christian, and be baptized with my- 
self. She raised her sweet face to mine with such a smile. 
‘ Bless you, bless you, my own husband I we shall all meet 
again, then. Oh, you have made me so happy! Jesus will 

save — will bring us all to ’ Her sweet voice sunk, and 

her head drooped down on my bosom ; and thinking she wa? 
exhausted, I clasped her closer to me, and kissed her again 
and again. Nearly half an hour passed, and I felt no move- 
ment. heard no breath. It was quite dark, and with sudden 
terror I called aloud for lights. Tiiey were brought ; I lifted 
the bright curls from her dear face, and raised her head. It 
was vain, vain.” 

He ceased abruptly, and there was silence, for Sarah could 
not speak. Reuben hastily paced the room; then, reseating 
himself by his eousin, continued more calmly ; but, limited as 
we are for space, we are forbidden to continue the conversa 
tioD, though it deepened in interest, even as it subsided in 


66 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


emotion. Keuben told how he had faithfully kept his promise 
— how, for two months, he had remained with his father-in- 
law, studying the word of God, and listening to all the in- 
structions of Mr. Vaughan, whose very kindness and true piety 
in spirit made his arguments more difficult to resist, than had 
they been harshly and determinately enforced. A year was 
the period Reuben had promised to devote to the fulfilment of 
his vow ; and if, at the end of that time, he could believe in 
Jesus, he and his child would, of course, be made Christians , 
but if his studies had a contrary effect, no more, either by 
Mr. Wilson or the clergyman, would be said to him on the 
subject. 

“ Sarah, my dear cousin, do not fear for me. My God did 
not forsake me, even when I forsook Him. He will not then 
forsake me now that I seek Him, and night and day implore 
Him to reveal that path, that faith, which is most acceptable 
to Him. I have already read and felt enough to glory in the 
faith I once despised — to feel it is a privilege, aye, and a 
proud one, to be a Jew: for the rest, let us trust in Him.” 

“ And your child, dear Reuben — where is she ?” 

“With Mrs. Vaughan, at present. At the conclusion of 
the year, God willing, and my mother is spared, she shall be 
cared for by the same tender love which her erring father only 
now knows how to value and return.” 

“ And does my aunt know this ?” 

“ No, Sarah, no. I cannot tell her. I feel as if I had no 
right to go to her again, until I have indeed returned with 
heart and soul to the faith in which all her gentle counsels 
had not power to retain me. No. no, no ; I cannot, cannot 
claim the solace of her love till I am worthy to be called her 
son in faith as well as love.” 

The cousins were long together, and much, much was 
spoken between them, which we would fain repeat, as likely 
to be useful to our readers, but we are warned to desist : 
enough to know that Sarah prevailed on Reuben to write to 
his mother and tell her all, even if the story of his inward 
life were otherwise kept secret. 

Reuben said he had given up his place in the bank, and 
intended, f )r the remainder of the year, to endeavour to obtain 
a situation in some Jewish counting-house as clerk, for some 
houis in the day ; and thus allow him evenings, Sabbaths, and 
holidays for his sacred purpose. It was with this intention 
he had come up to London, as though he might have pro- 


THE PEREZ FAMILY, 


07 


cured employment in Liverpool or Manchester, he shrunk 
from all remark, even kindness, from his own nation, until he 
had in truth returned to them. He had brought with him 
letters of high recommendation, which had obtained a capital 
situation in a thriving house of his own nation ; a branch of 
which resided in Birmingham, to which place it was likely he 
should go. 

“ It is not that I fear the temptations of this large city, 
dearest Sarah, that I would rather live elsewhere. No, I 
shrink from all scenes of pleasure now with sensation of 
loathing ; but I feel as if it would be better for me to be 
alone, even away from those I most love, till this one year is 
passed: Sarah, will you think of me, pray for me?” he took 
both her hands, and looked pleadingly in her face. “ It 
would be a comfort, such a comfort to come to you for sympa- 
thy, for counsel ; for you it was, when we watched together 
by my sick mother’s bed, who first made me feel that were all 
like you, the name ‘ a Jew ’ would cease to be reproached ; 
but no, no, it is better for me — perhaps, too, for your charac- 
ter, dear girl — that we should not meet yet awhile. I threw 
away happiness once when it might perchance have been mine ; 
and now — but it is better thus.” 

He had spoken incoherently, and he brok^ off abruptly. 
Sarah only answered by the simple assurance that she never 
ceased to pray for his happiness, nor would she now ; and soon 
after they separated affectionately, confidingly, as in long past 
years, perchance yet more so ; for then a barrier was between 
them, now there was none ; their rock of refuge, the shield of 
their salvation, was the same. 

To define Sarah’s feelings, as she prostrated herself before 
her God in prayer that night, is indeed impossible ; nor is 
there need — surely the coldest, the most callous, can imagine 
them, and give her sympathy. Not indeed that hope was 
dawning for her long-tried, long-hidden affection ; for Reuben 
never dreamed he was so loved. It was simply thanksgiving, 
the purest, most heartfelt, that her prayers were heard — the 
beloved one of her heart brought back to his God. 

Yet many were the secret tears she shed, as she pictured 
her cousin’s anguish. She gave not one single thought to 
those words, which a less guileless heart might have be’ieved 
related to herself. She never thought of the consequences 
which Reuben’s return to his faith might bring to her indivi- 
dually. It was enough of happiness to feel he had sought 
her in his sorrow, had felt her as his friend. 

4 


68 


THE PEE.EZ FAMILY 


But sorrow was at hand, as unexpected as terrible. Aboil 
four or five months after her interview with Reuben, old 
Esther came to her one day in such extremity of grief and 
horror, that even her little share of discretion vanished before 
it, ard she imparted her tidings to Sarah so suddenly, that the 
poor girl stood stunned and paralysed, preserved only by a 
strong though almost unconscious effort from fainting. Levi- 
son had been taken up and carried to Newgate as an accom- 
plice in act of burglary and robbery, which, attended by cir- 
cumstances of unusual notoriety, had been lately committed 
in the neighbourhood of Epping. Levison had loudly and 
fiercely asserted his innocence ; but of course his asseverations 
had been disregarded. 

But he has said it — he has said it ! He has declared he is 
innocent, and he is — he is !” reiterated poor Sarah, with a vio- 
lent burst of tears, which restored sense and energy. Esther, 
however, seemed to derive no comfort tiom the assertion. 

“ Yes, dear, yes; I do believe he is not guilty — bad as 
some of us are, we do not do such things. Who ever heard of 
a Jew being a housebreaker or a thief? But who will be- 
lieve him ? Who will take his word, his oath ? Oh. what 
will become of us ?” and the old woman rocked herself to and 
fro, in the misery of the thought. Sarah was in no state to 
offer the usual comfort ; but stunned, bewildered as she was, 
her thought formed itself into unconscious prayer for help 
and strength. Her plan of action was decided on the in- 
stant ; she would, she must go to him. In vain Esther bade 
her think of the consequences ; what would her mistress say, 
if she knew that Sarah was any way related to Levison, 
the reputed housebreaker, much less that she was his daugh- 
ter ? 

Would you then advise me, if this misery come to her 
knowledge, deny my father, now that he may need me more 
than ever? Oh, Esther, I cannot do this,” replied Sarah 
mournfully, though firmly. “ My mistress need not know my 
errand now perhaps, and this terrible trial may be permitted 
to pass away before it comes to the worst. But should it in- 
deed reach her ears, I cannot deny him ; he has only me, and 
if it cause me the loss of my situation, of my character in the 
opinion of my fellow-creatures, my God will love me, care for 
me still. I cannot desert my father.” 

And ^yhile she seeks him, we must inform our readers, 
briefly as may be, how the matter "eally stood. Levison hid 


THE PEREZ FAMIL'i. 


6 ^ 


l)eeii seen and recognised talking to a party of men the even 
ing j)revious to the night’s robbery. No one could swear to 
his person as accessory to the act by having seen him in the 
house, but in such earnest conversation with those who were 
taken in the fact, tiiat he was, in consequence, committed as 
one of the gang, for the apprehension of whom a large reward 
had been offered. It was true, none of the stolen property 
had been found on his person, or in his dwelling; but these 
facts were little heeded in his favour. 

lie was a Jew — a man who had been noted for his dishon- 
est practices in business, and consequently there was no one to 
come forward with such report of his former oL/iracter as 
could be taken in his favour. 

lie persisted that he was innocent ; that though he had 
been talking to the men as was alleged, he knew nothing of 
their real character or intentions ; that he had been acquaint- 
ed with them formerly, but only in the way of business ; that 
they knew he had separated from them, at seven o’clock that 
evening, to proceed several miles in a contrary direction, to 
the burial-ground of his people, where he had been engaged to 
watch beside the grave of one that day interred ; the person 
who had been engaged to do so having been suddenly taken 
ill, and asked him, Levison, to watch in his stead. How could 
he prove this? he was asked. 

The unhappy man groaned aloud for answer — he had no 
proof. Some one, a gentleman, had indeed visited the grave 
at break of day. had demanded who he was, and why he was 
there instead of the person engaged ; and he answered, giving 
his full name. The gentleman had thrown him money, and 
hastily departed ; but who or what he was, except a Jew, as 
himself, Le ison did not know. 

.Of couise, such a tale, and from such a person, was not to 
be believed, and he was committed to Newgate, with his sup- 
posed accomplices, to take his trial 

It was with .great difficulty Sarah gained admittance to his 
cell ; but it was not till in his presence, till the door was closed 
upon her for a specified time, that the energy which supported 
her throughout gave way. 

She could but throw herself on her knees before him, but 
fling her arms round him, and sob forth. “ Father !” the con- 
vulsions of agony and fear which shook her every limb depriv- 
ing her at once of power and of voice. 

The effect of her presence on Levison was terrible. lie 


70 


THE TEHEZ FA1\1ILY. 


gave vent to a wild, shrill cry, then catching her to his hosom, 
gasped forth, “ My daughter ! oh, my daughter ! the God ol 
wrath and justice will withdraw his hand, if you are near,” and 
then sunk back in a strong convulsive fit. Perhaps it was as 
well that the poor girl was thus compelled to exertion. Ter- 
rified as she was, she knew to call for help was useless, for who 
could hear her? But by unloosening his collar, and the ap- 
plication of cold water, which happened to be in the room, 
after a few minutes of intense terror, she saw the convulsive 
struggles gradually give way, and he lay sensible, but exhaust- 
ed. it was then she saw the ravages either illness or impris- 
onment had made ; it seemed as if even death itself was upon 
him. He had never quite recovered the illness which had 
originally called her to London, and the last few days seemed 
to have brought it back with increase of suffering and com- 
plete prostration of physical power. His black hair had 
whitened, and his form was bent, as if a burden of many years 
had descended upon him ; his features were contracted, and 
wan as death. 

“ Sarah, Sarah, I thought God had forsaken me ; but I 
see you, and I know he has not. Miserable and guilty as I 
am — guilty of many sins, as I know, I feel now — but not of 
this : no, no, no ; my child, my child, I am innocent of this. I 
turned away from vice and sin for your sake. I made a vow 
to try and become worthy of such an angel child ; and see, 
see what has come upon me! I have been deceiving and dis- 
honest in former days, but even then I never, never turned 
aside to steal — to join a gang of thieves. Sarah, Sarah, I 
thought to make you happy at last ; and I shall be but your 
curse, your misery. Perhaps you too will not believe me, 
but I am innocent of this crime ; my child, my child, I am 
indeed I” 

It was long ere Sarah’s gentle soothings and earnest 
assurances of her firm belief in his perfect innocence could 
calm the fearful agitation of her unhappy father. Still her 
presence, the pressure of her hand was such comfort, that a 
light appeared to have gleamed on the darkness of his despair, 
and he poured forth his agonizing thoughts, his terrors, alike 
of life and death and eternity, as if his child were indeed the 
ministering angel ot hope and faith and comfort which his 
deep love believed her. 

‘‘ Had I not you, my daughter, oh, there would be no 
hope, no mercy for one like me. I have disobeyed and pro- 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


71 


fancd my God, and taken His koly name in vain, and called 
down on me His wrath, His vengeance; and how can I, how 
dare I hope for mercy ? I cannot repent — I cannot secjs: 
righteousness now ; it is too late, too late ! Yet God has 
given me you; and is He then all wrath, all punishment ? 
Tell me, tell me, there is mercy for the sinner, even now.'’ 

“Father, dear father, there is! Has He not said it? 
Yes, and reiterated it in His holy book, till the most doubting 
of us must believe. ‘ He hath no pleasure in the death of 
the wicked, but rather that he should turn from his wicked- 
ness and live ;’ bidding us repent and believe, and that in 
the day we did so our guilt should not be remembered — 
should not appear against us ; telling us but to confess our 
sin, to throw ourselves on His mercy, that mercy all perfect 
to purify, redeem, and save — that He is merciful and gracious, 
long-suffering, abundant in mercy and love — showing mercy 
unto thousands ! My father, oh, my father, there is no sin so 
infinite as His mercy — no sin for which repentance and love 
and faith in Him will not in His sight atone.” 

“ But I can make no atonement, my child. I can do 
nothing to prove repentance — that I would serve and love 
Him now — nothing to make reparation for past sin: too late, 
too late !” and he groaned aloud. 

“ He does not ask works, my father, when He knows they 
cannot be performed. Have you not sought Him this last 
year, in penitence and prayer, and amendment of your ways? 
and does He not record this, though man may not ? and now, 
oh, do but believe in Him, in His will and power to forgive 
and save — do but call upon Him with the faith and repent- 
ance of a sorrowing child. Oh, my father, God asks no more 
than we can do. His sacrifices are a broken heart and^-a 
contrite spirit, which we all have power to bestow. He has 
told us this blessed truth, through the lips of one who had 
the power to do and give much more in atonement for his sin 
that we, who can do nothing but believe and repent, may be 
comforted. Father, my own dear father, if indeed you re- 
pent and love, and believe, oh, God is near you, will save you 
still !” 

Much, much more did Sarah say, as she sat on the straw 
pallet where her unhappy father half reclined, her dark, truth- 
ful eyes, often swelling in large tears, fixed on his face as she 
spoke. It was impossible for one whom her influence the 
last twelvemonth had already, through God’s mercy, changed 


72 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


in heart, to listen to her healing words, and look on her sweet 
pleading face, and vet retain the doubts and terrors of de- 
spair. It seemed to Levison that if such a being could love 
and pity him, and cling to him thus even in a prison cell, he 
could not be cutoff from all of heavenly hope — the all-pitying 
love and consoling promises of God appeared to him through 
her as if by a voice from heaven. They could not deceive, 
and even in the depth of repentant agony — for it was true re- 
pentance — there was comfort. Sarah was summoned away 
only too soon, but she promised to visit him often again. 
The piece of gold which she had slid into the turnkey’s hand, 
she knew, would be her passport ; but to do this unknown to 
her mistress was an act of injustice towards her, which her 
pure mind rejected. 

Yet how to tell her? The determination was made, but 
on the manner of fulfilling it poor Sarah thought some time. 
Perhaps it was fortunate she was roused to exertion. On 
entering the kitchen for something she wanted, she saw her 
fellow-servants congregated in a knot together, the footman 
reading aloud the account of the robbery, and the committal 
of the gang, from the newspapers. lie stopped as she 
entered, and every eye turned on her. Her cheek grew 
white as ashes, and her lip (juivered, so as to be remarked by 
all. The footman seemed about to speak, but the housemaid 
laid her hand on his arm. with an imploring look to forbear. 
It was enough. Sarah felt she could better leave her mis- 
tress than encounter the questions or suspicions of her fellow- 
servants, and that instant she sought the parlour. Miss Leon 
was with her sister. The ghastly paleness and agonized 
expression of the poor girl’s face struck her at once, and with 
accents of earnest kindness she inquired what was the matter. 
Bursting into tears, Sarah almost inarticulately related the 
heavy trial which had befallen her, and her intention to give 
up her situation. Confidential, happy as it was to devote 
herself to her unfortunate father, feeling that the child of one 
suspected as he was could bring but disreputableness to a re- 
spectable family, Sarah felt her story was incoherent ; but 
that it was understood was visible in its effects. Mrs. Corea, 
selfish and weak as her wont, thought only of the trouble and 
annoyance Sarah’s resignation of her situation would bring 
her ; and overwhelmed her with reproaches, as ungrateful and 
capricious. Miss Leon spoke calmly and reasonably. There 
was no need for any decisive parting. Sarah might leave 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


73 


tliem for a time, if she were desirous of doing so, though she 
did not think it wise ; that if Mrs. Corea valued her so much, 
she could have no objection to her returning. “ What ! the 
daughter of a pickpocket, a housebreaker ! No, no, if Sarah 
were fool enough to say she was the daughter of such a per- 
son, she would have nothing more to do with her ; but there 
was no need for her to do so. What was to prevent her 
disclaiming all relationship; and what good could she do to 
him or herself by going to him? It was all folly. There 
were plenty of Levisons in the world. Nobody need know 
this .Levison wa's Sarah’s father, if the girl herself were not 
such a fool as to betray it.” 

“ And can you advise this. Miss Leon ?” implored Sarah, 
turning towards her. “ Oh, do not, do not say so. I would 
not displease one so kind and good as you are. I would do 
anything, everything to show you I am grateful ; but I can- 
not, oh, I cannot deny my father ! I should never know a 
happy day again.” 

Miss Leon was not at all a person to evince useless emo- 
tion. but there was certainly something rising in her throat, 
which made her voice husky ere she replied. Reasonable and 
feeling, however, as her arguments were, that, without actually 
denying or deserting her father, she need not ruin her own 
reputation for ever, by proclaiming it was to visit him in 
prison, she left her place. Sarah could at that moment only 
fei’l ; her future was bound up in her father’s. 

We have not, however, space to dilate on all Miss Leon 
urged or Sarah felt. Suffice it, that the next morning Sarah 
turned away from the house which for nearly two years had 
been a happy home. She knew not if she should ever be 
welcome there again. Miss Leon was indeed still her friend; 
but how could even she aid her now ? She returned to that 
dilapidated dwelling where old Esther still lived, feeling that 
heavy as she had thought her tt*lal when she had first 
entered those doors, it was light, it was joy to that which was 
hers now. 

Day after day, in the brief period intervening before Lev^i 
eon’s final trial, did his devoted daughter visit his cell, and 
not in vain. The terror, the anguish which had possessed him 
were passing from his soul. He did believe in the saving 
power of his God. He did approach His throne with a 
broken and contrite heart • and it was the prayers, the faith, 
the forbearing devotion of his child, which brought him there 


74 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


Sarah had told all his story to Miss Leon, who had listened 
attentively, though she herself feared that to remedy this and 
prove him innocent was, even to her energetic benevolence, 
impossible 

The morning of the trial came, the court was crowded ; 
for the extensive robberies traced home to 'this gang occa- 
sioned unusual excitement. The trembling heart of the daugh- 
ter felt that to wait to hear of its termination, and her father’s 
sentence, was impossible, the very effort would drive her mad. 
In vain old Esther remonstrated ; offered, infirm as she was, 
to go herself, if Sarah would but remain quietly at home. 
Sarah insisted on accompanying her, muffled up so as not to 
be recognised. They mingled with the thronging crowds, 
jostled, pushed, and otherwise annoyed, yet Sarah knew it not 
— seemed conscious of nothing till her eyes rested on her mis- 
guided father. What was it she hoped? She knew not, 
except a strange undefined belief that even now, in the 
eleventh hour, Ms innocence would be made evident. Alas, 
poor girl ! the summary proceedings of a court of justice on a 
gang of noted criminals allowed no saving clause. He was 
sworn to as having been seen with them, and that was sufficient. 
All he said was unheeded, perhaps unheard ; and sentence of 
transportation for life was pronounced on every man by name, 
Isaac Levison included. 

Sarah did not scream ; she thought she did not faint, for 
the words rung in her ears as repeated by a hundred echoes, 
each one louder than the other ; but except this power of 
hearing, every other sense seemed suddenly stilled. She did 
not know whose arm led her from that terrible scene — who 
was conducting her hastily yet tenderly towards home. She 
walked on quick, quicker still, as if the rapidity of movement 
should hush that mocking sound. It would not, it could not ; 
and when she was at home, she sunk down powerless, conscious 
only of misery that even taith might not remove. 

“ Sarah, my own Sarah ! look up, speak to me, this silence 
is terrible !” exclaimed a voice which roused her as with an 
electric shock. Reuben Perez was beside her, his arm around 
her ; the ice of misery, the restraint of long-hidden feelings, 
were broken by the power of that voice, and laying her head 
on 'his shoulder, she sobbed in uncontrollable agony. He 
t.old her how he had seen the name of Levison in the papers, 
and his defence, and how he had trembled lest it should be her 
father ; how anxiously he had wished to come up at once to 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


75 


London, but was unavoidably prevented leaving Birmingliam 
till the previous night. How he had proceeded to the court; 
at once recognised Levisou, and at the same moment, guided 
by some strange instinct, looked for and found Sarah, muffled 
as she was. 

He had gradually and with difficulty made his way through 
the crowd towards her, and reached her just as the sentence 
was pronounced. Old Esther had begged him to take care 
of Sarah home, as she could follow more slowly. He tried to 
speak comfort respecting her father; but in this he failed. 
Shudderingly, she reiterated the sentence. “ Transportation, 
and for life — to be sent away to work, to die, untended, un- 
loved,” and then, as with sudden thought, she started up — 

“ No, no, no !” she exclaimed, a hectic glow tinging her 
pallid cheek. Why cannot I go too ? not with him, they will 
not let me do that ; but there are ships enough taking out em- 
igrants, and I can meet him there — be with him again. They 
shall not separate the father from his child ; and he is inno- 
cent ! My father, my poor father, your Sarah will not forsake 
you even now !” and she wept again, but less painfully than 
before. Startled as he was, Reuben could yet feel this was 
scarcely a resolution to be kept, and with argument and per- 
suasion sought to turn her from her purpose. Her father 
could not need such sacrifice ; how could she aid him in his 
far distant dwelling? 

“ He has but me — he has but me !” she reiterated ; “ who 
is there that has claim enough to keep me from him ? I have 
thought a former trial heavy to be borne ; but had it not been 
for that, my poor father might have died in sin, for perhaps I 
could not have come to him as I did when free. No, no, I 
was destined to be the instrument, in the hands of mercy, in 
bringing him back to the God he had offended, and I may do 
so still. Reuben, Reuben, who is there has such claim upon 
me, as my poor, poor father ? Others love me, and oh, God 
only knows how I love them ! but they are happy and pros- 
perous, they do not need me.” 

“ Sarah,” answered Reuben, his voice choked with emo 
tion, “ Sarah, you spoke of a former heavy trial, one hard ttj 
bear. Oh, answer me, speak to me ! W as not I its cause ? 
I deceived myself when I thought I had not injured your 
peace when I wrecked my own.” 

“ It matters little now,” replied Sarah, turning from his 
look, while lier cheek again blanched to marble ; “ my path 


re 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


is marked out for me. I may not leave it even to think 
of whtit has been or might be ; it cannotj must not matter 
now ” 

“ It must — it'shall !” exclaimed Keuben, with more than 
wonted impetuosity. “ Sarah. Sarah, you ask me who needs 
you as your father does — to whom you can be as you are to 
him ? I answer, there is one, one to whom, as to your father, 
you have been a guardian angel, winning him back even by 
your memory, when far separated, to the God he had forsaken. 
I trampled on the love I bore you — my own feelings as well 
as yours — to unite myself with a stranger race, to bid all who 
knew me cease to regard me as a Jew. I sought to believe I 
bad nothing to reproach myself with, as I had not caused 
you grief, and yet — conscience, conscience ! Oh, Sarah, my 
poor Jeanie’s very love was constant agony, for I could not 
return it. I never loved her as I loved you, even though she 
wound herself about my very heart, and her death seemed 
misery. I looked to the end of this twelvemonth to feel my- 
self worthy to tell you all my sin, my misery, and, if you 
could forgive me, to conjure you to become mine. Oh, do 
not sentence me to increase of trial ! I looked to you to 
train up my motherless Jeanie, as indeed a child of God, ac- 
cording to your own pure belief; and to bind me to Him by 
links I could never, even in the strongest temptation, turn 
aside. And now, now, when my heart tells me 1 was deceived 
and I had injured you — for you did love me, you do love me 
— oh, will you leave me — for a doubtful duty, part from me for 
ever ? I care not how long I serve to win you. Sarah, Sarah, 
only tell me you can still love me, you will be mine.” 

Too late, too late, oh, it is all too late !” replied Sarah, 
firmly, though her voice was choked with tears. 

“ Keuben, dear Keuben, why have you spoken thus, and at 
this moment % It was a weak and idle folly to deny that to 
be your wife would be the dearest happiness which could be 
mine ; that I have loved you, long before I knew what love 
could mean ; and prayed for you, wept for you — but I must 
not think of these things now. Months ago, such words from 
you would have been all joy ; but now — do not speak them, 
dearest Reuben — they increase my trial, but cannot change 
my purpose. My poor father is innocent, condemned un- 
justly. Were he guilty, I might decide otherwise; for per- 
haps it were then less a positive duty to tend him to tho 
last.” 


THE PEREZ FAMILY 


77 


And in vain did Reuben combat this determination. In 
vain, rendered more eloquent from his conviction that he was 
beloved, did he speak and urge, and speak again. lie desisted 
at length ; not from lack of argument, but because he saw it 
only increased the anguish of her feelings. 

“ If it must be so, dearest — ^j^et indeed, indeed, it is a mis- 
taken duty ; do not look on me so beseechingly, I will urgo 
no more. For myself I know I did not merit the Joy I had 
dared to picture ; yet still, stiil to resign it thus, to* know you 
love me spite of all — Sarah, how may I struggle on, with 
every hope and promise blighted ?” 

Do not say so, Reuben. Our Father will not leave you 
lonely. Seek Him, love Him. and He wiH fill up all the void 
which my absence may create; and do not think we part for 
ever. Oh, Reuben the love borne in my heart '-o long can 
know no cloud or change, and though years may pass on — my 
first duty be accomplished — yet when it is. and my poor 
father’s weary course is ended, if you be still free, may I not 
return to you, all, all your own ?” 

She lifted up her pale face to his with such a look of con- 
fidence and love, that Reuben’s only answer was to fold her to 
his heart and bid God bless her for such words. 

Days passed on, and thjugh all who heard her resolution 
were against it, though she had to encounter even Miss Leon’s 
arguments and entreaties that she would forego a purpose as 
uncalled for as misguided, Sarah never for one moment wa- 
vered. Vainly Miss Leon sketched the miseries that would 
await her in a savage land ; the little chance there was of her 
even being permitted to be near her father; the little she 
could do for him, even if they were together. She reasoned 
well and strongly and even feelingly, but there are times and 
duties when the heart hears only its own impulses, its own feel- 
ings, and must follow them. Had sh« wavered before she again 
met her father after his condemnation, which, however, she 
did not, her first interview would have strengthened her yet 
more. There was a wild and haggard look about him, a hol- 
low tone and wandering words, that made her at the first mo- 
ment tremble for his reason. 

“ Sarah, my daughter ! they have banished me from my 
God ! they have sentenced me to return to sin. Better, 
better, had they said I was to die, for then I should have gone 
direct from you to judgment, and your prayers, your angel 
words, had turned me from my sin ; but they will send me 


78 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


from you, and I shall sin a^ain. I shall fall away from all 
the good you taught me. With you, with you only I am safe 
— my daughter, oh, my daughter !” 

•• And I will not leave you, father — I go with you, not in 
the same ship, but I will meet you in a strange land. We 
shall be together there as here. I will not leave you while 
you need me. Do not look so, father, I have sworn it to my 
God.” 

She ttffew herself upon his neck, and the sinful but re- 
pentant man wept as an infant on her shoulder ; and from 
that hour her dread that his reason was departing never tor- 
mented her again. 

The evening before Levison’s remoyal with his fellow- 
convicts to Portsmouth — the ship awaiting them there — the 
influence of a larger bribe than usual from Reuben to the 
turnkey had secured to Sarah a few uninterrupted hours 
with her father in a separate cell. There was something 
strange in Levison’s countenance which rather alarmed him 
when he joined them ; it was flushed and excited, and as 
he walked across the cell his limbs seemed to totter beneath 
him. 

They had not much longer to be together, when an unusual 
number ^of footsteps crowded along the passage ; and, soon 
after, the turnkey, a sheriff, and a gentleman whom neither 
Sarah nor Reuben knew, though he was evidently of their 
own nation, entered the cell. There was still quite daylight 
sufficient to distinguish persons and features, and the very in- 
stant Levison’s eye caught the stranger, he started with a 
shrill cry to his feet, endeavoured to spring forward, but fail- 
ed, and would have fallen had not Reuben caught him in his 
arms, where he remained in a fit of trembling, which almost 
seemed convulsion. “ Now, be quiet, my good fellow, you will 
do well enough,” whispered the turnkey, as he stepped for- 
ward to assist in supporting Levison upon his feet. Here is 
this here gemman come to swear to your person, as hav- 
ing seen you in the burial-ground, just as how you said, that 
there night ; proving an alibi d’ye see. They’ll let you go 
even now— who’d ha’ thought it?” 

“ You said, sir, that you saw and spoke to a man named 
[saac Levison, of the Jewish nation, in the burial-ground of 
your people, on the morning of Wednesday, the 14th of May, 
exactly as the clock of Mile End Church chimed three,” 
Jieliberately began the pompous sheriff, on whose blunted 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


7y 

Bensibilities tbo various attitudes of agonized suspense, hope, 
and terror delineated in the group before him excited no 
emotion whatever. “ I have troubled you to come here to 
see this man, who calls himself by that name, and tells the 
same tale, seeing, that if you can swear to his person, he must 
be detained from accompanying the rest of the gang, and un- 
dergo a second trial, that your assertion in the court may pub- 
licly prove it.” 

“ I do not see much use in that,” interrupted the gentle- 
man, who, no lawyer, did not quite comprehend technicalities ; 

I should think my oath as to his person quite enough to 
free him. I did not appear on his trial, simply because I was 
abroad, and only heard of it through a friend sending me a 
newspaper and the particulars of the :ase — a friend of his 
wishing the man’s innocence to be proved. He wrote to me, 
knowing that either I or some one belonging to me had em- 
ployed a watcher that night, and vague as the tale was, I 
might help to clear it ; this, however, is nothing to the pur- 
pose. If the robbery you speak of was committed at Epping 
on the 14th of May, just about three o’clock in the morning, 
that man, Isaac Levison, is as innocent as I am ; for I can 
taEe my oath as to seeing and speaking with him that very 
morning, at that very hour, in the burial-ground of our people 
at Mile End. I particularly remarked him, as he was not the 
person I had engaged. There is no justice in England if you 
do not let him go — he is innocent.” 

Innocent — innocent — innocent ! My child, you are right ; 
there is a God, and a God of love ! Blessed — blessed — for- 
given !” He bounded from the detaining arms of Reuben 
and the turnkey, clasped Sarah to his heart with strange un- 
natural strength, and fell back a corpse ! 


CHAPTER V. 

A SMALL but most comfortably-furnished parlour of a new, 
respectable-looking dwelling, in one of the best streets of 
Liverpool, is the scene to which we must conduct our readers 
about two years after the conclusion of our last chapter. The 
furniture all looked new, except a kind of antique silver lamp, 
which stood on an oaken bracket opposite the window. It was 
a room thrown out from the usual back of the house, open- 
ing by a large French window, and one or two steps into a 


80 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


BiRall but beautifully laid-out flower garden, divided b^i » 
passage and another parlour from the handsome shop which 
opened on the street. It was a silversmith and watchmaker’s, 
with the words ‘‘Perez Brothers,” in large but not showy 
characters, over the door. The shop seemed much frequented, 
there was a constant ingress and egress of respectable people ; 
but there was no bustle, nothing going wrong, all seemed quiet- 
ness and regularity ; orders received and questions answered, 
and often articles of particularly skilful workmanship display- 
ed with that’ gentle courtesy and good feeling which can 
spring but from the heart. 

But we are forgetting — it is the parlour and not the shop 
with which we have to do. The room and its furniture may 
be strangers to us — perhaps one of its inmates — but not the 
other. The still infirm and aged, but the thrice-blessed, 
hrice-happy mother was still spared to b’ess God for the 
prosperity, the well-doing, and the unchanging faith and piety 
of her beloved children. Simeon’s wish was fulfilled — his 
mother was restored to her former station, nay, raised higher 
in the scale of society than she had ever been ; but meek in 
prosperity as faithful in adversity, there was no change in 
that widowed heart, save, if possible, yet deeper love and 
gratitude to God. And a beautiful picture might that gentle 
face have made, bending down with such a smile of caress- 
ing love on the lovely infant of nearly three years, who had 
clambered on her knee, and was folding its little round arms 
about her neck. It was a touching contrast of age and infancy, 
for Rachel looked much older than she really was, but there 
was nothing sad in it. The unusual loveliness of the child 
cannot be passed unnoticed ; the snowy skin, the rich golden 
curls just touched with that chestnut which takes away all in- 
sipidity from fairness, might have proclaimed her not a child 
of Israel ; but then there was the large, lustrous, black eye 
and its long fringe, the subdued, soul-speaking beauty of the 
other features — that was Israel’s, and Israel’s alone ! Full 
of life and joyousness, her infant prattle amused her grand- 
mother, till at the closing, about six in the. evening, her 
son Simeon joined her. We should perhaps have said that 
an elderly Jewess, remarkably clean and tidy in her person, 
had very often entered the parlour to see, she said, if the 
dear widow were comfortable or wanted anything, or little 
Jeanie were troublesome, etc. It was old Esther, who ful- 
filling all sorts of offices in the family, acting companion and 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


81 


nurse to the widow and Jeanie, cleaning silver — in which she 
was very expert — seeing to the cooking of the dinner, and 
taking -care of the lads’ clothes, delighted herself, and more 
than satisfied those with whom she lived. 

To satisfy our readers’ curiosity as to how this great 
change in the widow’s condition had been brought about, we 
will briefly narrate its origin. When Reuben’s year of proba« 
tion was over, and he felt he was a Jew in heart and soul and 
reason, as well as name, he returned to Liverpool, to deligU 
his mother with the change. He was met with love and with 
rejoicing, no reference was made to the past, and between 
himself and Simeon not a shadow of estrangement remained. 
The latter had at first hung back, feeling self-reproached that 
he had wronged his brother ; but Reuben’s truly noble nature 
conquered these feelings, and soon after bound him to hiiu 
with the ties of gratitude^ as well as love. Simeon’s taleni 
for modelling in silver was now as marked as his dislike to 
that trade, which, despite of (Tsiuclinatioii, he had perse- 
veringly followed. Reuben, on the contrary, retained all his 
father’s instructions in watch-rnaking, and had determined, 
when he returned to Liverpool, to set up that business, which, 
from the excellent capital he had amassed and laid by, was 
not difficult to accomplish. He had determined on this plan, 
feeling as if he thus tacitly acknowledged and followed his 
lamented father’s wishes, and atoned to him, even in death, 
for former disregard. He, of course, wished to associate 
Simeon in the business ; but as the young man’s desires 
and talents seemed pointed otherwise, he placed him for a 
year with a first-rate silversmith in London. Morris, Simeon’s 
late master, had given up business, and this in itself was a 
capital opening for Reuben. Ho made use of it, and flourish- 
ed. In less than eighteen months af^r his return to Liver- 
pool, “ Perez Brothers” opened their new shop as silversmiths 
and watchmakers, and from the careful, economical, and 
strictly honourable way in which the business was carried on 
— the name, too, with its associations of the honest hard- 
working man of whom these were the sons, adding golden 
weight — a very few months’ trial proved that industry, econo- 
my, and honesty must carry their own reward. 

But why was the widow alone ? Was not Reuben married^ 
and should not Sarah have been with her? Gentle reader 
Reuben is not yet married ; he has now gone to fetch his 
Sarah, for the term of probation for both is over. The mor 


82 


THE PEEEZ FAMILT. 


row is the thirteenth birthday of the twins ; and the widow ia 
expecting the return of Reuben and Sarah and Ruth, as she 
sits with her darling Jeanie in her little parlour, the evening 
we meet her again. 

Levison’s innocence and his sudden death had, of course, 
been made public, not only in an official way, but through the 
eagerness of Reuben that not a shadow of shame should ever 
approach his Sarah. When the first month of mourning had 
expired, Sarah returned to her situation ; her mistress quite 
forgetting former anger, and ready to declare Sarah had only 
dune just as she ought towards her poor innocent father ; that 
she was a pattern of Jewish daughters, and poured forth a 
volume of praises, all in the joy of getting her back. 

Reuben had been anxious for their marriage as soon as ho 
had completed two years from poor Jeanie Wilson’s early 
death, Sarah fully sympathised in his feelings towards Jea- 
nie, and they would often talk of her as a being dear to and 
cherished by them both. When the two years were completed, 
the marriage was still delayed, Mrs. Corea entreating Sarah to 
remain with her till she went on the Continent with her daugh- 
ters, which she intended to do in about six or eight months. 
She had been too indulgent a mistress, and Miss Leon too 
sincere a friend, for Sarah to hesitate a moment in postponing 
her own happiness. Resides, the delay, though Reuben did 
not like it, might be beneficial to him, in allowing him time to 
get settled in his business. Before the period elapsed, Sarah 
and Reuben too were rejoiced that she was still in London, 
for Ruth needed her ; the wherefore we shall find presently. 

“ Are they not late, mother ?” inquired Simeon, as he join- 
ed his mother in her own parlour. “ Troublesome loiterers I 
I wish they would arrive — I want my tea.” 

“ And is that all yqji want, Simeon ?” said the widow, smil- 
ing ; “ because that may easily be satisfied.” 

“ No, no ; not quite so voracious as that comes to. I want 
the loiterers themselves, though I have seen them later than 
you have, you know. You won’t find Sarah a whit altered; 
she is just the gentle yet energetic creature she always was, 
only more animated, more happy, I think. Then Ruth, darling 
Ruth — oh, how much I owe to her ! I never shall forget her 
reminding me of my promise to my poor father — her compel- 
ling me, as it were, to love my brother , and now. what is not 
that brother to me ? Mother, is it not strange how completely 
prejudice has gone ?” 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


88 


“ No, my dear son ; yonr heart was too truly and faithfully 
pious, too desirous really to love its God, for prejudice long to 
obtain the ascendant. It comes sometimes in very early youth, 
when we are apt to think we alone are quite right, but, unless 
encouraged, cannot long stand the light of strengthening reason 
and real spiritual love.” 

“ But does it not seem strange, mother, that I alone of my 
family should have been the one selected to receive such ex- 
treme kindness from a Christian — one of those whom, in former 
days,^I was more prejudiced against than I dared acknowledge ? 
I was very ill on my way home from London, and, as you know, 
Mr. Morton had me conveyed to his house, instead of leaving 
,me to the care of heartless strangers at the public inn — had a 
physician to attend me, nursed me as his own son — would read 
and talk to me, even after he knew I was a J ew, on the spirit 
of religion, which we both felt. Never shall I forget the im- 
pressive tone and manner with which he said, when parting 
with me, ‘ Young man, never forget this important truth — that 
heart alone in sincerity loves God^ who can see .,in every pious 
iman^ a brother^ despite of difference of creed. That difference 
lies between man and his God : to do good and love one 
another is ma.n's duty unto man.^ and can, under no circum- 
stances and in no places, be evaded. Learn this lesson, and all 
the kindness I have shown you is amply rewarded.’ Is it not 
strange this should have occurred to me ?” 

“I do not think it strange, my dear son,” replied Mrs. Pe- 
rez, affectionately, though seriously. “ I believe so firmly that 
God’s eye is ever on us, that He so loves us, that He guides 
every event of our lives as will be most for our eternal good. 
He saw you sought to love and serve Him — that the very pre- 
judice borne towards others had its origin in the ardent love 
you bore your faith, and His infinite mercy permitted you to 
receive kindness from a Gentile and a stranger, that this one 
dark cloud should be removed, and your love for Him be in- 
creased in the love you bear your fellow-creatures.” 

“ May I believe this, mother ? It would be such a com- 
fort, such a redoubled excitement to love and worship,” answer- 
ed Simeon, fixing his large dark eyes beseechingly on his 
mother’s face. But can I do so without profaneness, with- 
out robbing our gracious God of the sanctity which is so im- 
peratively His due?” 

‘‘ Surely you may, my dear boy. W e have the whole word 
of God to prove and tell us that we are each individually and 


84 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


peculiarly His care — that He demands the Ueayt ; for dearer 
even than a mother’s love for her infant child is His luve 
towards us. How may we give Him our heart, if we never 
think of Him but as a Being too inexpressibly awful to ap- 
proach? How feel the thanksgiving and gratitude He loves 
to receive, if we do not perceive His guiding hand, even in the 
simplest events of our individual lives ? How seek Him in 
sorrow, if we do not think He has power and will to hear and 
to relieve? — in daily prayer, if we were not each of us espe- 
cially His own ? My boy, if the hairs of our head are number- 
ed, can we doubt the events of. our life are guided as will be 
but for our eternal good, and draw us closer to our God ? 
Think but of one dear to us both ; did it not seem, to our im- 
perfect wisdom, that Reuben’s marriage must for ever have 
divided him from his nation? Yet that very circumstance 
brought him back. Our Father in mercy permitted him to 
follow his own will, to be prosperous, to lose even the hated 
badge of Israel, that his own heart might be his judge. Afllic-'^ 
tion also, sent from that same gracious hand, deepened the^ 
peculiar feelings which becoming a parent had already excited. 
Then the year of re«!earch put the final seal on his return tc 
us. His mind could never have believed without calm, unim 
passioned, steady examination. He has examined not alone 
his own faith. Mr. Vaughan, from being the explainer, wa^ 
forced to become the defender of his own creed. He drew 
back, avowing, with a candour and charity which proved how 
truly of God was the s/nrit of religion within him, spite of the 
mistaken faith, that Reuben never could become a convert. 
And we know what true friends they are, notwithstanding Mr. 
Vaughan’s disappointment. They have strengthened them- 
selves in their own peculiar doctrines, without in the least 
ehaking each other’s.” 

Y es, yes ; you are quite right, mother dear, as you al- 
f7ays are,” replied Simeon, putting his arm round her, and 
affectionately kissing her. ‘‘ What a blessing it has been for 
me to have such a mother. Why, how now, master Joseph, 
what has happened ? have you lost your wits ?” 

“ If I have, it is for very joy !” exclaimed the boy, spring 
ing into the parlour, flinging his cap up to the ceiling, and sc 
stifling his mother with kisses, as obliged her to call for mercy. 

‘‘ Mother, mother, how can I tell you the good news? I must 
fcamper about before I can give them vent.” 

‘•Not another jump, not another step, till you have told 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


85 


ns,” exclaimed Simeon, laughing heartily at the boy’s grotesque 
movements, and catching him midway in a jump that would 
not have disgraced a harlequin. ‘‘ Now, what is it. you over- 
grown baby ? Are you not ashamed not to meet joy like a 
man ?” 

‘‘No baby ever felt such joy, Simeon ; and though I am a 
man to-morrow, I am not ashamed to act the madcap to-night. 
Mother, have I not told you the notice Mr. Morales has al- 
ways taken of me, and the books he has lent me ? Well, my 
master must have said such kind things of me ; for what, what 
do you think he has offered ? — that is, if you will consent ; and 
I know, oh, I know you love me too well to refuse. He will 
call on you himself to-morrow about it.” 

‘‘About what?” reiterated Simeon. “ My good fe low, it 
is of no use his calling. You are gone distracted, mad, fit for 
nothing !” \ 

“What does he offer, my love?” anxiously rejoined the 
widow. 

“ To take me home with him, as companion and friend to 
his own son, a boy just about my age — and such a fellow ! 
He has often come to talk with me about the books we have 
both read. And Mr. Morales said I shall learn all that Con- 
rad does. That I shall go abroad with them, and receive such 
an education, that years to come, if I stilly wish it, I may be 
fitted to be, what of all others I long to be, the llazan of our 
people. Hebrew, the Bible and the Talmud, and Latin, and 
Greek, and every thing that can help me for such an office ; 
besides the lighter literature and studies, which will make me 
an enlightened friend for his son. Oh. mother ! Simeon ! is it 
not enough to make me lose my wits? But I must not though, 
for 1 shall want them more than ever. You do not speak, my 
own dear mother ; but you will not, oh, I know you will not 
refuse.” 

‘* Befuse !” repeated the grateful widow, whose voice re- 
turned. “ No, no ! I would deserve to lose all the friends and 
blessings my God has given me, could ) be so selfish to refuse, 
because for a few years, my beloved chihh I must part with you. 
I dj not fear for you; you will never forget to love your 
mother, or to remember and obey her precepts !” 

‘‘ Give you joy, brother mine ! though, by my honour, I 
had better not wish you any more joy, for tiffs has well-nigh 
done for you,” laughingly rejoined Simeon ; for he saw that 
both J oseph and his mother’s eyes were wet with grateful tears, 
and he did not wish emotion to become pain. 


05 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


“ Yes, one more joy, but one : it is almost sinful to wisli 
more, when so much has been granted me,” replied Joseph, 
almost sorrowfully. “Would that Ruth, my own Ruth, could 
but Look on me once more ; could but have sight restored, that 
I might think of her as happy, independent, not needing me to 
supply her sight. Oh, I should not have one wish remaining; 
but sometimes I think, afflicted as she is, and bound so closely 
as we are, I ought not to leave her.” 

“ Then don’t think any more silliness, my boy. Reuben 
and your humble servant are much obliged to you for ima- 
gining, because we do not happen to be her twin brothers, we 
cannot be to her what you are — out on your conceit! Make 
haste, and be a Hazan^ and give her a home, and thtn you 
shall have her all to yourself ; till then we will take care of 
her I” 

J oseph’s laughing reply was checked by the entrance of 
Leah, attended by a young man of very prepossessing ap- 
pearance. It was Maurice Carvalho, the son and heir of a 
thriving bookseller and fancy stationer, of Ijiverpool, noted 
for a very devoted attendance on the pretty young milliner. 

“Not arrived yeti why, I feared they would have been 
here before me, and thought me so unkind,” said Leah, after 
affectionately greeting her mother. “ Are we not late ?” 

“ Dreadfully I” replied Simeon, mischievously. “ Mrs. Val- 
entine said you were at liberty after five ; what have you 
been doing with yourselves ?” 

“ Taking a walk, and went further than we thought,” said 
Maurice, with affected carelessness, while Leah turned away 
with a blush. 

“ A walk I whew,” and Simeon gave a prolonged whistle ; 
“ were you not cold ?” 

“ Cold, you stupid fellow I why it is scarce autumn yet — 
the evenings are delightful.” 

“ Particularly when the subject of conversation is of a 
remarkably summer warmth; with doves billing and cooing 
in the trees, and nightingales singing to the rose — there, am 
I not poetical 1 Leah, my girl, you used to like poetry ; you 
mght to like it better now.” 

“ Better — why ?” 

“ Oh, because — because poetry and love are twin brothers, 
^ou know!” 

“ Simeon I” remonstrated Leah ; but the pleased expression 
of young Carvalho’s face and the satisfaction beaming on the 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


87 


widow’s betrayed at once that the bachelor was quite at liberty 
to talk and amuse himself at their expense ; their love was 
acknowledged to each other, and hallowed by a parent’s bless- 
ing and consent. 

Joseph had scarcely had time to tell his joyful tale to his 
sister, before a loud shout from Simeon, who had gone to the 
front to watch, proclaimed the anxiously-desired arrival. 
Joseph and Maurice darted out, and in less than a minute 
lleuben and Sarah entered the parlour. 

“ Mother, dearest mother, she is here — never, never, with 
God’s blessing, to leave us again !” exclaimed Reuben, as 
Sarah threw herself alternately in the arms of the widow and 
Leah, and then again sought the embrace of the former, to hide 
the gushing tears of joy and feeling on her bosom, without 
the power of uttering a single word. 

“ My child, my own darling child ! oh, what a blessing it 
is to look on your dear face again ! Still my own Sarah, spite 
of all the cares ' and trials you have borne since we parted !” 
exclaimed the widow, fondly putting back the braids of beau- 
tiful hair, to look intently on that sweet gentle face. 

‘‘ And your blessing, mother, dearest mother ; oh, say as 
you have so often tolcl me, you could wish and ask no dearer, 
bettor wife for your Reuben ; and such blessing may give my 
Sarah voice !” He threw his arm round her as he spoke, and 
both bent reverently before the widow, whose voice trembled 
audibly as she gave the desired blessing, and told how she 
had prayed and yearned that this might be, and Sarah’s voice 
returned, with a tone so glad, so bird like in its joy, it needed 
but few words. 

“My Ruth, where is my Ruth? and where are Joseph 
and Simeon gone?” asked the widow, when one joy was sulfi- 
ciently relieved to permit her thinking of another. 

“ She will be here almost directly, mother. She was 
rather tired with the journey, and so I persuaded her to rest 
quiet at the inn close by, till I sent Simeon and J oseph with 
a coach for her and our luggage ; they will not be long be- 
fore they return. Rut tell me, where ismy Jeanie? not in 
bed I hope, though we are late ?” 

“No; Esther took her away about half an hour ago, to 
amuse and keep her awake — not very difficult to do, as she is 
as lively as ever.” Reuben was off in a moment. 

“And Esther, dear Reuben, bid her come and see me,’ 
rejoined Sarah ; and then clasping her aunt’s hand, “ oh, my 


88 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


dear aunt, what have I not felt, since we last met, that T owe 
you ! I thought I was grateful, felt it to the full before ; but 
not till I was tried, not till I learned the value of strong prin- 
ciples, steady conduct, and firm control, did I know all you 
had done for me. My God, indeed, was with me throughout; 
but this would not have been, had not your care and your 
atfection taught me how to seek and love Him. Ob, will a 
life of devotion to our Eeuben, and to you, and to his off* 
spring, in part repay your kindness, dearest aunt?” 

The widow’s answer we leave our readers to imagine, fear- 
ing they should accuse us of again becoming sentimental. Old 
Esther speedily made her appearance, and her greeting was 
second only in affection to the widow’s own. 

“ Father, dear father, come home, come home !” was the 
next sweet lisping voice that met the delighted ears of Sarah, 
and in another moment Reuben appeared with the child in 
his arms, her little rosy fingers twisted in his hair, and hei 
round soft cheek resting against his. 

This is my poor motherless babe, for whom I have bespoken 
your love, your protection, your guiding hand, my Sarah,” 
he whispered, in a low, earnest voice. Will you love her for 
my sake ?” 

“ And for her own and for her mother’s ; do not doubt me, 
Reuben. If she is yours, is she not, then, mine?” she an- 
swered, in the same voice. The child looked at her as if half 
inclined to spring into the caressing, extended arms, but then, 
with sudden shyness, hid her face on her father’s shoulder. 

“ Jeanie, darling, what was the word I taught you to say? 
Look at her and say it, and kiss her as you do me.” 

The child still hesitated ; but then, as if emboldened by 
Sarah’s sweet voice calling her name, she looked full in her face 
and lisped out, Mother,” held up her little face to kiss her, 
and was quite contented to be transferred from Reuben’s 
arms to those of Sarah. 

“ Ruth, Ruth — I think I hear her coming !” joyfully ex- 
claimed Leah, a few minutes afterwards. 

Go to her then, dear — detain her one minute,” hastily 
whispered Reuben, in a tone and manner that made his 
sister start. “ Do not ask me why now — ^you will know the 
moment you see her — only go. I must prepare my mother. 

I did not think she would have been here so soon.” 

Leah obe3'ed him, her heart beating, she did not Inow' 
why, and Reuben tinned to his mother. Sarah had given 


THE PEREZ FAMILY, 


89 


little Jeanie to Esther’s care, and was kneeling by her aa 
if to intercept her starting up, 

“What is it — what is it? Why do you keep iny child 
from me ? why send her brothers and sisters to her, inst^. ad 
of letting her come to me? Reuben, Sarah! what new 
affliction has befallen my angel child ?” 

“Affliction? None, none!” repeated Sarah and Reuben 
together, “ It is joy, dearest aunt, all joy. Oh, bear but 
joy as you have borne sorrow, and all will be well.” 

“Joy!” she repeated, almost wildly; “what greater joy 
can there be than to have my children all once again around 
me ? I have heard my Ruth has been ill, but that she was 
quite well, quite strong again, and have blessed Uod for that 
great mercy.” 

“ But there may be more, my mother, yet more for which 
to bless Him. Oh, are not all things possible with Him? 
He who in His wisdom once deprived of sight, can He not 
restore it ?” 

“ Reuben, Sarah ! what can you mean ? My child, my 
Ruth!” but voice and almost power failed, for such a trem- 
bling seized her limbs that Reuben was compelled to support 
her as she sat. It was but for a moment, for the next a light 
figure had bounded into the room, followed by Simeon and 
Joseph, Maurice and Leah. 

“ Mother ! mother ! mother ! They need not tell me where 
you are. You need not come to your poor blind RTith. I can 
SEE your dear face — see it once again. 

The widow had sprung up from her chair ; but ere she had 
made one step forward her child was in her arms — was fixing 
those long-closed eyes upon her face as if they would take in 
§very feature with one delighted gaze. One look was suffi- 
cient. A deadly faintness, from over-excited feelings, passed 
over the widow’s heart; but as she felt Ruth’s passionate 
kisses on her lips and cheeks, life returned in a wild burst of 
thanksgiving, and the widow folded her child closer and yet 
closer to her heart, and, overpowered by joy as she had never 
been by sorrow, “ she lifted up her voice and wept.” 


Reader, our task is done — for need we say it was the bene- 
volent exertion of Miss Leon, under a merciful Providence, 
which procured the last most unlooked-for blessing to the 


90 


THE PEREZ FAMILY. 


widow and her family? She had remarked there was a slight 
change in the appearance of the child’s eyes, had taken her 
without delay to the most eminent oculist of the day, and 
received his opinion that sight might be restored. The rest, 
to a character such as hers, was easy ; and thus twice was 
she the means of materially brightening the happiness of the 
Perez family ; for, though we had not space in our last chap- 
ter to dilate on it, it had been actually through her means the 
innocence of Levison had been discovered, though «he herself 
was at the time scarcely conscious how. She had mentioned 
it to everybody she thought likely to be useful in discovering 
it, had been laughed at for her folly in believing such a 
tale, warned against taking up the guilt or innocence of such 
a person’s character ; and, in short, almost every one dissuaded 
her from mentioning the subject ; it really would do her harm. 
But she had persevered against even her own hope of effecting 
good, and was, as we have seen, successful. 

Before we quite say farewell, we would ask our readers if 
we have indeed been happy enough in this simple narration to 
make one solemn and most important truth clear as our own 
heart would wish — that, however dark may be our horizon, 
however our prayers and trust may for a while seem unheeded, 
our eager wishes denied us, our dearest feelings the mere 
means of woe, yet there is an answering and pitying God 
above us still, who, when He bids us ‘‘ commit our wa;^s unto 
Him, and trust also in Him,” has not alone the power, but the 
will, the loving-kindness, the infinite mercy, to “ bring it to 
pass.” My friends, that God is still our God ; and though 
the events of our simple tale may have no origin in real life, 
is there one amongst us who can look back upon his life, and 
prayers, and thoughts, and yet say that overruling Providence 
is but fiction, for we feel it, know it not ? Oh, if so, it is hiS 
own heart, not the love and word of his God, at fault. All 
may not be blessed so visibly as the widow and her family, 
but all who wait on and trust in the Lord will have their re« 
ward, if not on earth, yet dearer, more gloriously in heaveu. 


Stow-Cntbr's S'ffS of |flssa:giw. 

A SKETCH FROM HIS LIFE. 

It was evening in Venice. The queen of the Adriatic, hcf 
marble palaces and princely halls, her stately bridges and her 
dreary prisons, lay sleeping in gorgeous beauty, flushed by the 
glowing splendour of the setting sun, lingering as loath to 
%de away and be lost in the more sombre hues of twilight, 
which, rising from the east, was softly and balmily stealing 
over the expanse of heaven, bearing si ence, and repose, and 
quiet loveliness on her meekly pensive brow. It was an hour 
of deep calm — the pause of life and nature, when the business 
of the day was done, the gay festivities of night not yet 
begun. Now and then ^e sound of a guitar, or the thrill of 
melody from music-gushing voices, echoed from the water ; or 
whispered accents, in the passioned tones of Italy, betraying 
some tale of happy love ; and then, again, might be traced a 
muffled figure, with shadowed brow and stern-closed lip, hold- 
ing himself aloof, as if his world were contained in the mighty 
passions, the deep secrets of his own heart ; and thus, from 
hate, or guile, or scorn, contemning all his fellows. And then 
would come by, with measured oar and evening hymn, the 
fisher’s humble skiff ; and then, in strange contrast, the deco- 
rated bark of patrician pride, with noble freight and liveried 
attendants. Presently, light after light gleamed up from 
palace, and hall, and bridge, rivalling the stars of heaven, 
spangling earth and water. Sunset faded into twilight ; and 
twilight, resting a brief interval on the bosom of night, gave 
up to her the care of earth, and disappeared. But not with 
the marble palaces and their princely honours — not with the 
midnight intrigue, the lovers’ meeting — not with the pirate ot 
the seas, the brigand of the land ; all of which seem spring- 
ing up, more vivid than memory, more tangible than fancy, in 
that one magic word, Venice — not with these have we to treat. 
In a small, rudely furnished apartment, scattered round 
with implements of sculpture, half-finished models in clay 
and stone, sketches, both in chalk and colouring, and some 
5 


92 


THE stone-cutter’s BOY OF POSSAGNO. 


few volumes of miscellaneous lore, sat one, a boy in years 
but bearing on his brow and in his eye somewhat far — oh ! 
far beyond his age. Clothed as he was in the simplest, most 
homely attire, his peculiarly graceful and well-proportioned 
figure marked him noble ; his intelligent, nay more, his soul- 
breathing features, the light of mind illumining his full dark 
eye, and resting on the broad, high forehead, even the beau* 
tiful hair of glossy black, curling so carelessly round the 
peculiarly well-shaped head : — could these characteristics be- 
long to the stone-cutter’s boy of Possagno, whose first twelve 
years had been passed in the mud-walled cabin of his poor 
and hard-working grandfather ? It was even so ; but the 
lowliness of birth was, even at this early period of nis life, 
lost in the nobility of Genius. Her voice had breathed its 
thrilling whisper within him ; and he heard, but^as yet under- 
stood it not — ^was unconscious of the deep meanings, the glorious 
prophecy, the mighty shadows of an unborn future, of which 
those thrilling whispers spoke. He only knew there was a 
spirit within him, urging, impelling, he scarce knew what ; a 
longing for the Infinite which pressed so heavily upon him, 
that he felt, to use his own impressive words, “He could have 
started on foot with a velocity to outstrip the wind, but with- 
out knowing whither to direct his steps ; and when activity 
could no longer be supported, he would have , desired to lie 
down and die.” He would hurry to the haunts of Nature — 
the wildest, most boundless scenes, gazing on the distant 
mountain, the rushing torrent, the dark, mysterious forest ; 
and then up to the gorgeous masses of cloud, sailing over the 
transparent heaven of his own bright land, watch intently 
each light, each shade, each fleeting change, longing to soar to 
them, to penetrate the mysteries of Nature. And at such 
moments he was happy; for the sense of Infinity seemed 
taken from his own overcharged heart to be impressed on 
Nature, to linger around, below, above him, to breathe its tale 
^loud, from the voice of the torrent to the glistening star re 
fleeted in its depths — from the radiant star to the lowly 
flower, trembling beneath its burning gaze ; and the voice 
was less painfully oppressive then than when it came, in the 
still, the lonely hour, to the deep recesses of his own young heart. 
And from these scenes he would turn again to the work of his 
own hand ; and despondency and darkness, at times, clouded 
up his spirit, for they gave not back the impress of the beauty, 
the infinity, with which his soul was filled. lie knew not the 


THE stone-cutter’s BOY OP POSSAGNO. 93 

wherefore of this deep-seated joy and woe ; and had there 
been one to whisper it did but prophesy immortal fame, the 
boy would have smiled in disbelief 

But on this fair eve neither the hurrying impulse nor 
desponding sadness was upon him. The boy sat beside the 
open casement, looking forth on the gradual approach of 
aigiit and her starry train, on the still waters slumbering be- 
neath, or flashing in passing light from illuminated skiffs ; 
but his thoughts were not on these. An open volume lay 
upon his knee, which had so absorbed alike heart, mind, and 
fancy, that darkness had stolen around him unconsciously ; 
and when compelled to cease reading, there was a charm in 
the thoughts created, too entrancing, too irresistible, to per- 
mit their interruption, even by a movement. 

“ Why, Antonio, lad, what holds thee so tranced, even 
thine own Guiseppe stands beside thee, rudely and inhospita- 
bly unnoticed ? Shame on thee ! The Falieri had not wel- 
comed Tonin thus.” 

With a start of joyful surprise, the boy turned to grasp 
the extended hands of his noble friend, to welcome him 
again and again, and then to ask and answer so many ques- 
tions interesting to none but themselves, that some time passed 
ere Guiseppe Falieri found leisure to ask what had so en- 
grossed his friend when he entered. 

Up in the skies again, Tonin, lad — riding on a star, or 
reposing on a cloud — ^yonder one, perchance, so exquisitely 
silvered by the moon 

“ No, Guiseppe mio, I was more on earth than in heaven 
that moment.” 

“ Thou on earth ! and with such a sky, such a moon, above 
us ! Marvellous ! Ah, a book !” And, attracted by An- 
tonio’s smile to the volume, he took it up, and read by the clear 
moonlight, “‘Life of Dante.’ Only his life! Nay, had it 
been his Divina Commedia, his soul-thrilling poesy, I could 
better have forgiven thy neglect.” 

“ Yet, perchance, had his life no Beatrice, Guiseppe, Italy 
had had no poet.” 

“ It was Beatrice, then, that so enchanted thee I Come, 
that’s some comfort for my pride. I give thee permission 
to neglect me for her. Yet,” he added, after a brief pause, 
“ how know we it was not all illusion — a vision of the poet — 
a fancy — a beautiful creation ? I have often thought it too 
shadowy, too much of the ideal, for dull, dark reality.” 


94 THE stone-cutter's boy of possagno. 

“ Illusion or reality, oil ! it was blessed for Italy, thrice 
blessed for the poet !” answered Antonio, with such unaffected 
fervour, that it extended to his companion. “ Without 
Beatrice, what had Dante been ? A poet, perchance, but 
wanting the glow, the life, the thrilling beauty, now gushing 
so eloquently from every line. Beauty, and such as hers, 
ethereal from first to last, till nought but his own heart and 
heaven retained her. Oh, Guiseppe, the glance of her eye, 
the touch of her hand, was all sufficient to ignite the electric 
lamp of genius, which, without such influence, perchance, had 
been buried in its own smouldering gloom,, and never flung its 
rays upm a world.” 

“ Thinkest thou, then, Tonin, that the influence of beauty 
could, indeed, be so experienced by one who, though so might}^ 
in intellect, was still only a boy in years ?” 

Do I think so, Guiseppe ? — yes, oh, yes ! It filled up all 
the yearning void so dark before ; it threw a sunshine and a 
glory over all of life and earth ; it gave a semblance and a 
shape to all the glowing images of mind ; and as the count- 
less rays down-gushing from one sun. it poured into the poet’s 
breast infinity from one !” 

Guiseppe Falieri looked on the enthusiast, feeling far more 
than Antonio himself the glorious gifts that boyish heart en- 
shrined ; and loved, aye, reverenced him — him, the peasant 
boy, though he himself was noble, the younger son of an 
illustrious Venetian house. But what, he felt, was rank of 
birth compared to rank of intellect % and with that peasant 
boy the youthful noble remained for hours, only leaving 
that lowly room to wander forth with him, as their souls had 
freer, more delicious communion, under the blue vault of 
heaven than in confining walls. To enjoy the society of his 
humble friend in their brief vi&its to Venice, Guiseppe 
Falieri ever relinquished the more exciting pleasures of the 
boon companions of his rank and station ; and ere the mantle 
of age descended upon him, how did he glory in the penetra- 
tion of his boyhood ! 


11 . 


It was morn in Venice : her seventy islets were lighted up 
with a flood of sunshine of transparent brilliance, known 


THE stone-cutter’s BOY OP POSSAGNO. 95 

only to fair Italy, but falling with soft and mellowed rays 
within the gallery of the proud Farsetti Palace. Thrown 
open to the youth of both sexes studying the fine arts, pri- 
vate munificence had gathered together the most perfect 
specimens of ancient and modern art — all that could forward 
the eager student in his darling pursuit, ensuring priceless 
advantages even to the poorest and the humblest, fostering 
in every individual breast the gift peculiarly his own. Oh, 
truly is that country where such things are, the nurse of 
Genius ! Truly may her children decorate her with the 
fruits of those resplendent gifts with which Heaven has 
endowed them ! Truly may her poets breathe forth lays to 
mark her as themselves — immortal ! Italy, beautiful Italy, 
how doth the heart burn, the spirit love, when we write of 
thee ! 

To this gallery the young xintonio was a constant visitor, 
and he was so persevering in his studies as to attract the 
attention and rivet the friendship of its noble owner, at whose 
order he executed the first specimen of that sculpture which 
was to enroll his lowly name amid the mighty spirits of his 
native land, and bear to distant shores the echoes of his 
fame. Morning after morning found him in the Farsetti 
gallery, engaged either in drawing, modelling, or painting 
from antique casts, or from those modern ones to which the 
possessors of the establishment directed his notice. No diffi- 
culty could deter, no more tempting model could allure. 
Severely, faithfully true to the path marked out, every other 
student shrunk from competition with him, as pigmies from a 
giant. 

Wrapt as Antonio ever was in his task, however severe or 
little interesting, generally so absorbed as to be unconscious 
of all outward things, it was strange that a voice had power 
to rouse him from such preoccupation, and bid him, half- 
unconsciously yet inquiringly, look round. Soft, low, sil 
very, it thrilled to the boy’s soul, as a voice that had haunted 
his dreams, and was yet to reality unknown. And the being 
from whom it came ? Had ho ever seen one like to her, or 
was it the mere embodying of all those visions of beauty, 
which, sleeping or waking, haunted his soul % He knew 
not. He only knew he sat entranced, breathless, awestruck, 
as though some angelic being had stood before him, demand* 
ing adoration. Young, very young, she seemed yet older 
than himself; and pale, but oh! so exquisitely lovely — with 


9l3 THE stone-cuttee’s boy of possagj^o. 

all of heaven, nought of earth ! E’en the deep feeling rest* 
ing on that full bright lip ; the dark, lustrous, deep-souled 
eye ; the rich, the glorious intellect sitting throned upon 
that beauteous brow ; the smile flitting round that chiselled 
mouth, as an emanation from the soul ; nay, every^ move- 
ment of the sylph-like form, too light, too spirit-like, for 
coarser earth — all whispered to the boy’s full heart with 
power, eloquence, unfelt though often dreamed before. And 
matter of astonishment it was to him, that the other students 
BO calmly continued their labors, content with one glance of 
admiration on the stranger. 

Leaning on the arm of a friend or attendant, she advanced 
up the gallery, and took her seat as one of the students. The 
model was selected, her drawing materials arranged, and si- 
lently she pursued her task. 

Little more did Antonio do that day; for the strange, 
tumultuous emotions of his bosom seemed from that time to 
paralyse his hand. He worked on, indeed, mechanically till 
the hour of closing, and then, oh ! how grateful was the 
fresh breeze of heaven, the free, active movement of a rapid 
walk. Yet even then — strange incongruity of feeling- -he 
yearned for the morrow to find himself anew by her side ; 
and then a trembling was upon him, that it was all illusion, 
all a sweet, bright vision, which would fade as it had come. 

But such it was not. The hours of study came and 
passed, and each morning found that frail, ethereal being in 
the Farsetti gallery, attended on her entrance and departure, 
but left to pursue her studies, as was the custom, alone ; and, 
irresistibly, the young sculptor chose those casts which drew 
him closer to her side, that even as he worked he might 
glance on that surpassing beauty, might watch each graceful 
movement ; and this was happiness, inexpressible happiness, 
although he knew not wherefore. He could not speak it, 
even to his dearest friend. He felt it all too sacred, too 
deeply shrined for voice, as if the first breath that gave it 
utterance would bid it fly for ever. He shrunk deeper and 
deeper within himself ; not moodily, not sadly, but only sen- 
sible that with such a being he should be for ever happy 
for even her silent presence shed a glow around him, fading 
not even when she was no longer near. He was feeling what 
his own lips had so vividly described as Beauty’s influence on 
Dante ; but the guileless, unsophisticated boy knew not that 
such it was. 


THE stone-cutter’s BOY OF POSSAGNO. 97 

Silently he felt, and silently he worked ; for those new, 
strange, yet delicious feelings weakened not his mighty 
powers ; nay, new light suffused them, even to his own 
impartial, often desponding eye. Once she stood by his 
side, leaning on the arm of her attendant. He felt the 
g’.ance of those lovely eyes was fixed admiringly on tlie 
work of his hand ; and that hand trembled for the first t.mc. 
Her voice reached his ear in its sweet music, and though it 
simply praised his work as “ assai bello^^ it lingered on his 
heart as a never-forgotten melody, thrilling through the 
deeper, louder, mightier voice of Fame, of monarchs’ praise, 
of world’s applause, as an angel’s whisper midst the crashing 
storm. He only bowed his head in low acknowledgment, in 
voiceless answer. He could not summon strength to breathe 
one word, or meet that gentle glance ; but, oh ! the deep, full, 
gushing joy which was upon him from that hour, inspiring 
more air of beauty in his labours, for her eye might rest on 
them again. 

Days, weeks, thus passed, and still, as by magnetic influ- 
ence, those youthful students were ever side by side ; but ere 
the second moon had wholly waned, Antonio sat alone ; that 
lovely one had vanished from her usual haunt, and mournfully, 
darkly, the hours, once so joyous, passed — for the sunlight had 
departed from them. 

Day after day, hope returned to the boy’s heart, but not 
its beauteous object to his eye, and heavily this silent 
adoration lay upon his soul. Another and another day, and 
still she came not ; a week, another, and how might he 
inquire her fate, when, even could he speak that yearning 
sorrow, he had no trace — no clue to her identity? She had 
come with nought but her own loveliness to steal upon his 
heart, and he could not violate the sanctuary her image filled 
by one word of question. He shrunk from every eye, as if 
he feared his treasure were discovered, and the notice of 
his fellows would sully its ethereal purity by mingling it with 
earth. 

Still he laboured indefatigably as before ; for her voice 
was sounding in the still depths of his own soul, and perhaps 
it might sound again — her praise might hallow the work, even 
of his impotent hand, and mark it blessed ! 

A ray of sunshine had fallen upon the work of the young 
sculptor, giving it that peculiar light and shadow which it 
had worn that never-to-be-forgotten day. when his eye first 


98 THE stone-cutter’s boy of possagno. 

marked the loveliness his soul had visioned. Such as tha 
ray had reached him from its fount, flashed back every feel- 
ing, every pulsation of that hour, till, in its magic, the very 
form of the beloved, the worshipped one, stood, or seemed 
to stand, before him, tangible, palpable as life, save that the 
smile, the shadowy form, w'ere as if all of earth had gone. 
Breathless, pale, motionless, Antonio’s trembling hand refused 
to guide the pencil — his fixed and starting eye to move, lest 
all should fade away, and leave him desolate. A noise among 
the students aroused him, and with a sudden start and heavy 
sigh he awoke to consciousness. It was but vacancy on which 
he gazed, or his spirit held commune with beings not seen of 
eaith. 

Another week, and Antonio looked on the faithful attend- 
ant of his spirit’s idol ; but she was alone, and pale and sad, 
and robed in all the sable draperies of woe. His heart throb- 
bed, his voice failed, a sickness as of death crept over him ; 
yet, as she passed to seek and remove the portfolio of the miss- 
ing one, he struggled to subdue that inward trembling, and 
speak, but only a few brief, faltering accents came. 

The Signora — her friend — was she well ? — had she quit- 
ted Venice ?” 

A burst of agonizing tears answered him, and then the 
mournful confirmation The Signora Julia had gone to that 
heaven whose child she was ; earth would see her sweet face, 
list her glad laugh, feel her light step, no more.” And the 
mourner passed on: and Antonio leaned his head upon his 
hands, as if some invisible stroke had crushed him. Gone ! 
and for ever ! Oh ! the unutterable agony to the young, the 
loving, contained in those brief words ! 

And never more did the young sculptor hear that name. 
Never did he know the birth, the rank, the story of her who 
so like a spirit had crossed his path ! Men knew not, dreamed 
not, the tide of feeling on that young boy’s soul. Now in him 
were working the silent influences of beauty, of hopeless love. 
They saw him engaged each day, studying his art, laboriously 
working under his master, Ferrari, on some still, cold, soulless 
statues, still to be seen in the villa of Trepoli ; and how could 
they imagine the glowing visions of beauty, of poetry, at work 
within? No ! It was in after years, when such forms of un- 
rivalled loveliness, of immortal beauty, sprung in almost 
breathing life beneath the magic chisel of Antonio Canova, 
that the vision of early boyhood might be traced ; and even 


THE stone-cutter’s BOY OF POSSAGNO. 


99 


now, in the perfection to which his art attained, man may be- 
hold the realization of those vague yet impelling yearnings 
after Beauty, Infinity, all that Genius craves, which had start- 
ed into life and being from the lovely vision of his first and 
only love, 


Iimrfi anJt |afe| * 

AN ALLEGORY. 

Far in the illimitable space, seeming to earth as one of those 
bright yet tiny stars, which even the most powerful telescope 
will not increase in size, so immeasurable is the distance be- 
tween them and us, two Spirits sat enthroned, each intrusted 
with an attribute of the Creator, with which to renew His 
image in man and vivify the earth. Their work was one, 
each so aiding each that, though in outward form distinct, 
their inward being was the same. The one, known in the 
language of heaven as Amete — and who, were there measure- 
ment of Time in the children of Eternity, might seem the 
elder — was in aspect grave, almost stern, but those who could 
steadily gaze upon him, and receive his image within their 
hearts (and man did so a thousand and a thousand times, 
though the Spirit’s visible form was unrevealed), loved him, 
with such deep, earnest love, as to forget the seeming stern- 
ness in the deep calm and still security his recognition ever 
brought. A coronet of light circled his brow, his wings were 
of living sapphire, and in his hand he held a transparent 
spear. Wherever he moved, darkness and mist fled from be- 
fore him; and error sunk annihilated, before one touch of 
that crystal lance. Change and mutability touched him not ; 
coeval with Creation, he endured to Everlasting — ever pre- 
senting the same exquisite aspect, producing on earth the 
same effect, and through every age aiding to mould man for 
Immortality. Distinct from his companion, yet the same ; 
reflecting his every changeful hue of loveliness, yet retaining 
undisturbed his own. 

Not such was the outward appearance of Yafeh. Less 
majestic, less grave. Earth and Heaven ever hailed him with 
rejoicing. The latter, indeed, knew him not apart from 
Amete ; and the former, in her darkness, sometimes greeted 

* Two Hebrew words, whose translations will be found in the con- 
finding paragraph. 


AMETE AND YAFEH. 


lOl 


his semblance, not himself. Eobed in light, drawn not from 
the ethereal fount which circled Am^te, but from those daz- 
zling iris-coloured rays, the reflection of which we sometimes 
catch when the sun shines upon a prism, the various changes of 
his exquisite loveliness were impossible to be defined. But it 
was only when in close unity with Amete he was seen to full per- 
fection, and his glittering garb endowed with vitality and glory ; 
apart those iris rays shone forth resplendent and most daz- 
zling, but without the light glistening on the brow of his com- 
panion were too soon merged in gloom. 

But this Yafeh himself knew not, and in his young ambi- 
tion besought permission to work alone. His revealed form 
was more visible on earth than that of Amete. As he looked 
down, and around, and above him, the attribute of which he 
was the guardian seemed so powerfully and palpably impressed, 
that he could not trace the invisible workings of his compan- 
ion, and in his presumption he deemed it all his own, and 
chafed and spurned the bond which, since their creation, had 
entwined and marked them one. Mournfully and earnestly 
Amete conjured him to check the impious prayer; that which 
the All- Wise had assigned them was surely best and safest. 
But Yafeh would not heed, and ceased not his murmuring 
supplication till it was granted. With the work already done, 
the work of Creation, he might not interfere ; but the arch- 
angelic minister bade him “ Go down to earth, and in the 
workshop of man, be his creation of hand or brain, display thy 
power ; thou art free to work alone,” and with a glad burst of 
triumphant song, and the brilliant velocity of a falling star, 
the Spirit darted down to earth. 

“ Follow him not !” commanded the archangel, answering 
Amete’s imploring gaze ; “ once convinced of his nothingness 
alone, he will never leave thee more. That lesson learned, 
thou mayest rejoin him ; meanwhile, look down upon his 
course,” and sorrowingly Amete obeyed. 

He beheld him, arrayed in even more than his wonted love- 
liness, enter the several habitations of man ; his invisible but 
felt presence greeted with wild joy, and his inspirings followed 
in the new creative genius of all whom he touched. In the 
lowly homes of the mechanic and the artisan he lingered, and 
their work grew beneath their hand ; and at first it seemed 
most lovely, but still something was wanting, and they toiled 
and toiled to find it, but in vain ; and despair and ruin usurped 
the place of glad rejoicing. 


102 


AMETE and -/aFEH. 


They are of too low a grade, too dull a mind,” murmured 
the Spirit, and he flew to tne easel of the painter, the work- 
shop of the sculptor ; and new conceptions of loveliness float- 
ed so vividly in their minds, that day and night unceasingly 
they toiled to give them embodied form, and sweet dreams of 
fame mingled with their creation, till life itself seemed bright- 
er than before. And Yafeh rejoiced, for surely now he was 
triumphant ; here at least perfection would vitalize his pres- 
ence, and prove how little needed he Amete. He mingled in- 
visibly with the judges of the works, and he beheld them 
scorned — contemned as dreams of madmen ; and the artists 
fled, disgraced and miserable, to their homes, with difficulty 
restrained from shivering their work to atoms. 

Terrified, yet still not humbled, Yafeh winged his flight 
to the studio of the musician, and harmonies of heaven float- 
ed in his ear, entrancing him with their exquisite perfection, 
and hour after hour he laboured to bring them from their im- 
palpable essence to the bondage of not^e and phrase, but in 
vain — in vain ! The sounds he did produce were wild, dis- 
cordant, unconnected, and in passionate agony he refused to 
listen more. 

The poet, the philosopher, the historian — wherever genius 
lay — Yafeh touched with his quivering breath, and to all 
came the same dream of marvellous loveliness— the same 
ideal perfection. On all burst the torrent of inspiration, 
compelling toil and work, to give words to the pressing 
thought, and all for awhile believed it perfect ; and their 
burning souls throbbed high in the fond hope that each glo- 
rious lay, each novel discovery, each startling hypothesis — 
clothed in such glowing imagery and thrilling words — must^ 
last for ever. And Yafeh triumphed, for surelj here he was 
secure, and in these prove that he could work alone, and need- 
ed the aid of none. 

A brief, brief while, and the burning lays of the poet were 
forgotten and unread. The theory of the philosopher, lovely 
as it had seemed, quivered into darkness before the test of 
usefulness and reason. The new discoveries, new thoughts of 
the historian met with scorn and laughter in the vain search 
for their foundation. And, in their deep despair, Yafeh heard 
the names by which he was known to earth accursed and 
scorned ; his presence banished ; his inspirations rudely checked, 
as bringing not loveliness and joy, but misery and ruin ; and 
the Spirit fled, in his wild agony, far, far from the homos of 


AMETE AND YAFEH 


103 


earth and the hearts of men ; and, shrinking from his starrj 
home and light-clad brother, sought to pierce through and 
through the vast realms of unfathomable space, and lose him- 
self in darkness. His iris lays seemed fading from bis love- 
ly form, lost in denser and denser gloom. Above, below, 
and around him thunder rolled, and the glittering Hosts of 
Heaven trembled, lest his proud wish were to be chastised 
still further. But soon the majestic form of the Spirit 
Amete stood beside his brother, and before the touch of his 
glittering spear, Error and Despair, about to claim Yafeh fled 
howling. 

“ Yafeh, beloved ! we will descend together,” he said, in 
tones clear, distinct, and liquid, impossible to be withstood. 

Thy work shall yet live, and be immortal.” 

“ Nay, ’twill be thine,” murmured the repentant Spirit, his 
darkened loveliness resuming light and glory, from the efful- 
gent brow so pityingly bent down on his. “ What need hast 
thou for me ? Go forth and work alone ; I have no part on 
earth.’' 

‘‘ Thou hast ; for without thee I have no power. Man 
trembles at my form, when, at the Eternal’s mandate, I must 
go forth alone ; but with thee, perchance because my stern- 
er self is hidden, he loves and hails me, and permits my 
work ascendency. Without thee, I could but bind to earth ; 
with thee, I lead to heaven. Brother, we are One, though 
earth may deem us twain. We cannot work for Immortality 
apart.” 

Side by side, so closely twined that even their brother 
spirits could with difficulty distinguish their individuality, 
Amete and Yafeh stood within the dwellings of man. The 
mechanic and the artizan started from their desponding trance; 
the neglected work was resumed. The form, the inspiration 
was the same ; but as if a flash of light had touched it, it 
gave back that perfect image of the mind for which before 
they had so toiled, and toiled in vain. On to the artist, the 
sculptor, the musician, and one touch from that crystal spear, 
and tire misty cloud dispersed, and the senseless canvas gave 
back the perfected thought ; the cold marble sprung into the 
warmth of actual being ; the impalpable but exquisite harmo- 
nies, the ethereal essence of sound, at the word of Amete, re- 
solved itself into the necessary bondage of note and form, and 
breathed forth to admiring thousands the music lent to one. 
Hovering over the poet, again the thrilling words burst forth^ 


104 


AMETE AND YAFEH. 


and fraught with such mighty meanings every heart responded, 
as to the voice of the Immortal; folding his azure pinion 
round the panting soul of the philosopher, the shrouding cloud 
dispersed, and science, deep, stern, lasting, took the place of 
the mere lovely dream ; and on the page of the historian, light 
from the brow of Amete so flashed, as to mark him gifted read- 
er of the Future, by the wondrous record his spirit-thought 
unfolded of the Past. Wherever the Spirits lingered, man 
worked for Immortality ; it mattered not under what guise, 
or in what rank. From the highest to the lowest, each crea- 
tive impulse, fashioned by Yafeh, received perfection from 
Amete. The former, indeed, alone was visible.^ but nevei 
more he sought to work alone. Within his outward work was 
the vital essence breathed by x\mete, without which the moss 
exquisite form was incomplete — the most lovely thought im- 
perfect — the fairest theory a dream. 

And so it is even now. Up, up in yon distant star, gleam- 
ing so brightly through the immeasurable space, as may bo 
their throne, still does their glorious and united Presence walk 
the earth. Their semblance may be found apart, but not ihem- 
selves. Twain as they are in name and aspect, in essence 
they are One. Truth is the vital breath of Beauty ; Beauty 
the outward form of Truth ; the Real the sole foundavion or 
the Ideal ; the Ideal but the spiritualized essence of the 
Real. 


A TRUE TALE. 

Judah Azavedo was the only son of a rich Jewish merchai t, 
settled in London. His grandfather, a native and resident of 
Portugal, having witnessed the fearful proceedings of the 
Inquisition on some of his relations and friends, secretly follow- 
ers of Israel, as himself, fled to Holland, bearing with him no 
inconsiderable property. This, through successful commerce, 
swelled into wealth ; and when, on his death, his son, with his 
wife and child, removed to England, and settled in the me- 
tropolis, they were considered, alike in birth, education and 
riches, one of the very highest families of the proud and aris 
tocratic Portuguese. 

But the situation of the Jews in England, some eighty or 
ninety years ago, was very difierent to their situation now. 
Riches, nay, even moral and mental dignity, were not then the 
passport to society and friendliness. Lingering prejudice, 
still predominant in the hearts of the English, and pride and 
nationality equally strong in the Hebrew, kept both parties 
aloof, so that no advance could be made on either side, and 
each remained profoundly ignorant of the other, not alone on 
the subject of opposing creeds, but of actual character. 

This though certainly a social evil, was, in some respects, 
as concerned the Israelites, a national good. It drew them 
more closely, more kindly together ; aliens and strangers to 
the children of other lands, the true followers of their perse- 
cuted creed were as brothers. Rich or poor, it mattered not. 
Hebrews and Portuguese were the ties in common, and the joy 
or grief of one family was the joy or grief of all. Fashion was 
little thought of Heartlessness, and that false pride which 
forswears relation to or connection with poverty, were un- 
known. Faults, no doubt they had ; but a more kindly, noble- 
hearted set of men, in their own sphere, than the Spanish and 
Portuguese Jews, nearly a hundred years ago, never had 
existence. 

Th(3 restless and over-sensitiveness of Judah Azavedo was 


106 


THE FUGITIVE. 


a subject of as much surprise to bis nation as of regret to bis 
father. Sole beir to immense wealtb — unencumbered with 
business — nothing to' occupy him but bis own pleasure — 
gifted with uncommon mental powers — dignified in figure — a 
kindly and most winning manner, when be chose to exert it ; 
yet was his whole life embittered by the morbid sensitiveness 
with which he regarded his most unfortunate lack of all 
attraction in face and feature. He was absolutely and dis- 
agreeably plain ; we would say ugly, did we not so exceed- 
ingly dislike the word. Yet there were times when the glow 
of mind, or still more warmly of heart, would throw such a 
soft and gentle expression over the almost deformed features, 
that their natural disfigurement ceased to be remembered. 
Those who knew him never felt any difference between him 
and his fellow-men, save in his superior heart and mind ; but 
Azavedo himself always imagined that, wherever he went, he 
must be an object of derision or dislike. He shrunk from 
all society, particularly from that of females, who, he was con- 
vinced, would be terrified even to look at him. Entreaties, 
commands, and remonstrances were vain. Could he have 
known more, mingled more with the world at large, these 
morbid feelings would, in time, have been rubbed off ; but in 
his very limited circle of familiar friends this was impossible, 
and the evil, in consequence, each year increased. 

To the Israelites of ninety years ago, the idea of travel- 
ling for pleasure was incomprehensible ; they were too happy, 
too grateful to the land which gave them rest and peace, to 
think of quitting it for any other. That Judah Azavedo 
should restlessly desire to leave England, and seek excitement 
in foreign lands, was in accordance with all his other extraor- 
dinary feelings ; but that his father, the wise, sedate, content- 
ed old man, whose every hope and affection were centred 
in this son, should give his consent, was more extraordinary 
still ; and many, in kindness, sought to dissuade him from it. 
But Azavedo loved his son too well to permit old habits and 
prejudices to interfere with the only indulgence Judah had 
ever asked ; he gave him his blessing and carte blanche with 
regard to gold, and the young man forthwith departed. 

He was absent three years, having travelled as far as the 
East, and visited every scene endeared to him as one of that 
favoured race for whom the sea itself had been divided. Ho 
had looked on misery, in so many varied forms, as the portion 
of his nation, that he felt reproached and ashamed at his own 


THE FUGITIVE. 


107 


repinings. He learnt ttat only crime and sin could authorize 
the misery he had endured ; that he was an immortal being, 
and one whose earthly lot was blessed so much above thou- 
sands of his brethren, that he only marvelled his sin of dis- 
content had not called down on him the wrath of God. His 
soul seemed suddenly free from fetters, and he moved among 
his fellow-men fearless and unabashed. 

Notwithstanding the danger of such a route — for, if known, 
or even suspected as a Hebrew, he would inevitably have 
perished — Judah chose to return home through Spain and 
Portugal, making himself known to some friends of his family 
still dwelling in the latter kingdom. With them he remained 
some few months, and then it was that a new emotion awoke 
within him, chaining him effectually, ere aware of its exist- 
ence. From his earliest youth Judah had dreaded, and so 
forsworn love, feeling it next to impossible for him ever to 
be loved in return ; but Love laughs at such forswearers. 
Before he could analyse why that bitterness against his un- 
happy ugliness should return, when he had thought it so suc- 
cessfully conquered, he loved with the full passionate fervour 
of his race and his own peculiar disposition, and loved one of 
whom he could learn nothing, trace nothing, know nothing, 
save that she was so surpassingly lovely, that though he had 
seen her but three times, never near, and only once without 
her veil, her beauty both of face and form lingered on his 
memory as indelibly engraved as if it had lain there for years, 
and then had been called into existence by some strangely 
awakening flash. She was as unknown to his friends as to 
himself ; only at the Opera had she been visible ; no inquiry, 
no search could elicit information. Once only he had heard 
the sound of her voice, and it breathed music as thrilling and 
transporting as the beauty of her face. Yet was she neither 
saintlike nor angelic ; it W'as an arch witchery, a shadowless 
glee, infused with the nameless, descriptionless, but convincing 
charm of mind. 

Judah Azavedo returned home an altered man, yet still 
no one could understand him. He no longer morbidly 
shunned society, nor even cared to eschew the company of 
females, seeming as wholly careless and insensible to the effects 
of his presence as he had before thought too much about it. 
Some said he was scornfully proud ; others that it was im* 
penetrable reserve ; all agreed that he was changed, but only 
bis most intimate friends could perceive that he was unhappy, 


108 


THE FUGITIVE. 


and from some deep-seated sorrow essentially distinct from tli6 
feelings engrossing him when he left England, and that this 
one feeling it was which rendered him so totally indifferent 
to everything else. 

Three, nearly four years elapsed, and Azavedo, in charac- 
ter and habits, remained the same. His father was dead, 
leaving him immense wealth, which he used nobly and gener- 
ously, winning “ golden opinions ” from every class and condi- 
tion of men, who, at the same time, wished that they could 
quite understand him ; and so we must leave him to waft oui 
readers over the salt seas, and introduce them to a more 
southern land and a very different person. 

In a luxuriously furnished apartment of a beautiful little 
villa, a few miles from Lisbon, was seated a lady of that ex- 
traordinary beauty which ever fastens on the memory as by 
some strange spell. Not more than three or four and twenty, 
all the freshness of girlhood was so united to the more mature 
graces of woman, that it was often difficult to say to which of 
these two periods of life she belonged. Her large, lustrous, 
jet-black eye, and the small pouting mouth, alike expressed 
at will either the mischievous glee of a mirth-loving girl, or 
the high-souled intellectuality of maturer woman. Hair of 
that deep dark brown, only to be distinguished from black 
when the sunshine falls upon it, lay in rich masses and 
braids around the beautifully shaped head, and giving, from 
the contrast, yet more dazzling fairness to the pure complexion 
of face and throat which it shaded ; the brow, so “ thought- 
thronged ” when at rest, yet lit up, when eye and mouth so 
willed, with such arch, laughter-loving glee ; but we must- 
pause, for the pen can never do beauty justice, and even if it 
did, would be accused of exaggeration, although there yet re- 
main those who, from personal acquaintance, can still bear 
witness to its truth. 

A gentleman was standing near her as she sat on her sofa, 
in the busy idleness of embroidery ; and as part of their con- 
versation may elucidate our tale, we will record it briefly as 
may be. 

“ Then you refused him ?” 

“ Can you ask 7 ” and the lightning flash of the lady’s dark 
eye betrayed unwonted indignation. “ He who would have 
so tempted a helpless girl of seventeen — I was then no more, 
though I had been married nearly a year — under such spacious 
reasoning, that I dreamed not his drift till the words of 


THE FUaiTIVE. 


109 


actual insult came ; sought to sow suspicion and distrust in 
my heart against my husband, his own brother, to serve his 
vile purposes ; and you ask me if I refused him, when, being 
once more free to wed, he dared pollute me with his abhorred 
addresses! Julian, my fair cousin, have you so forgotten 
Inez ? ” 

“ If I had, that indignant burst would have recalled her ; 
but of insult, remember, I knew nothing. You were married 
when so young, to a man so much older than yourself, that 
when I heard of his death, three years ago, I fancied, as you 
know is often the case with us, you would have married his 
younger brother, so much more suitable in point of qualities 
and years.” 

“ More suitable ! Wrong again, cousin mine. If I did 
not love my husband, I respected, honoured him — yes, loved 
him too as a father ; but as for Don Pedro, as men call him, 
Julian, I would rather have trusted the tender mercies of the 
Inquisition than I would him, and so I told him.” 

“ You could not have been so mad ! ” 

“ In sober truth, I was feeling too thoroughly indignant to 
weigh my words. It matters not, he dare not work me harm, 
for the secret on which alone he can, involves his safety as 
well as mine.” 

“ I wish I could think so ; there are many to say that he is 
in truth what he appears to be, and therefore one most danger- 
ous to ofiend.” 

“ I fear him as little as I scorn him much. I have heard 
this report before, but heed it not at all. Our holy.-cause 
loses little in the apostasy of such a member.” 

“ It may be so, Inez ’ but he holds the lives of others in 
his keeping, and therefore revenge is easily obtained.” 

“ You will not frighten me, Julian, try as you may. They 
say Pedro Benito is ill, almost to death — I am sorry for him, 
for I know no one more unfit to die ; but I have far too much 
pride to fear him, believe me. Better he should injure me, 
than I my own soul in uniting it with his. See,” she con- 
tinued, laughing, as she pointed to the portly figure of a 
Dominican priest pushing his mule up the steep ascent lead- 
ing to the villa, in such evident haste and trepidation as to 
occasion some amusement to his beholders ; “ there is more 
fear there than I shall ever feel. What can the poor 
priest need ? Do you know him, Julian ? comes he to you or 
me?” 


no 


THE FUGITIVE. 


I trust to neither, Inez, for such hot haste bodes littl€ 
good.” 

‘‘ Why, now, what a craven you have grown ! I will 
disown you for my cousin if you pluck not up more spirit, 
man !” 

Julian Alvarez tried to give as jesting a reply, but succeed- ' 
ed badly, his spirits feeling strangely anxious and oppressed. 
He was spared further rallying on the part of Inez, by the 
sudden reappearance of the priest (whom they had lost sight 
of by a curve in the ascent), without his mule, at the private 
entrance of Inez’s own garden, and without ceremony or ques- 
tion neared the window. Inez addressed him courteously, 
though with evident surprise ; the priest seemed not to heed 
her words, but, laying his hand on her arm, said, in a deep, 
low tone — 

“ Donna Inez, this is no time for courtesy or form. Daugh- 
ter, fly ! even now the bloodhounds are on the track. The 
scent has been given ; a dying man proclaimed you Jewess in 
hearing of others besides his confessor, else had you been still 
safe and free. Ere two hours, nay, in less time, they will be 
here. Away ! pause not for thought ; seek to save nothing but 
life, too precious for such sacrifice. A vessel lies moored be- 
low, which a brisk hour’s walk will reach. She sails for Eng- 
land the moment the wind shifts ; secure a passage in her, and 
trust in the Grod of Israel for the rest.” 

‘‘ And who are you who thus can care for me, knowing that 
which I am ?” answered the lady, in accents low as the sup- 
posed priest’s, but far less faltering, and only evincing the 
shock she had sustained by the sudden whiteness of cheek 
and lip. 

“ Men call me — think me, Padre Jose, my child ; but were 
I such you had not seen me here. That which you are am ij 
and because I thought Pedro Benito the same, I stood beside 
his death-bed. Vengeance and apostasy went hand in hand. 
Ask no more, but hence at once ; how may those fragile limbs 
bear the rack — the flames? Senor Alvarez, shake ofi" this 
stupor, or it will be too late !” 

Julian did indeed stand as paralysed, so suddenly and fear- 
fully were his worst fears confirmed. Fly ! and from all, home, 
friends, luxury, to be poor and dependent in a strange land ? 
It was even so ; the voice of vengeance had betrayed the fatal 
secret of race and faith, the very first whisper of which con- 
tigned to the Inquisition — but another word for torture and 


THE FUGITIVE. 


ill 

death. In two short hours, part of which had already gone, 
Inez had to find the vessel, be received on board, and leave no 
trace whatever of her way. Her very domestics must suspect 
nothing, or discovery would inevitably ensue. And yet, in the 
ii-idst of all this sudden accumulation of misfortune, Inez but 
once betrayed emotion. 

Julian, Julian, my boy !” she exclaimed, her sole answer 
to the reiterated entreaties of ner companions for her to de- 
part at once ; “ what will they not do to him 

“ Nothing, lady ; he shall be with me till he can rejoin 
you. Who will suspect Padre Jose of harbouring an Israel- 
ite save to convert him to the Holy Faith 

Inez caught the old man’s hand, her lip and eyelids quiv- 
ering convulsively ; but even the passion of chokinsr tears was 
conquered by the power of mind. In less than half an hour 
she was walking, at a brisk pace, through the shrubberies, in 
direction of the river, enveloped in mantilla and veil, and 
Julian Alvarez carrying a small parcel, containing the few 
jewels which she could collect, and one or two articles of cloth- 
ing, the all that the mistress of thousands could save from the 
rapacious hands which, under the garb of religion, were ever 
stretched out to confiscate and to destroy. 

Scarcely had they quitted the shrubberies, after nearly an 
hour’s brisk walking, and entered the high road, their only 
path, when about a dozen men, in the full livery of the Holy 
OflSce, were clearly discernible, on a slight rising not half a 
mile beyond them, pushing their horses so as directly to face 
them, and advancing at full speed. To turn back, was to ex- 
cite suspicion ; to meet them, tempt discovery. Fortunately 
a small inclosure of tall larches and thick firs lay forward, a 
little to the left, and there Inez impelled her bewildered com- 
panion, walking as carelessly, to all appearance, as taking a 
saunter for amusement. They saw the troop rapidly advance, 
pause exactly in front of their hiding-place, look round in- 
quiringly ; one or two spurred forward, as to beat the bushes ; 
a man’s step at the same time sounded in their rear — his 
dress fanned them as he passed : it was one of Donna Inez’s 
own labourers. They heard him hailed as he appeared, and 
questions asked, of which they heard nothing, but that word- 
less sound of voices so torturing to those who deem that 
life or death are hanging on the words. A few minutes — 
feeling hours — the conference lasted ; some direction, loudly 
repeated along the file, betrayed that their questions only re- 


112 


THE FUGITIVE. 


lated to their further route to the Villa Benito, and the borsei 
galloped on. 

Without exchanging a syllable, Inez and her companion 
hurried forward. It was still full half-an-hour’s walk to the 
river; the sun was declining, and the wind had risen fresh 
and balmy ; but while Julian rejoiced in its reviving power, 
lie trembled lest it should be bearing his cousin’s only chance 
of safety farther from them. Their pace was brisk as could 
be, yet every step seemed clogged with lead, and weary felt 
the way, till the river’s brink was gained. Bathed in the 
lingering glow of a magnificent sunset, the bright waters lay 
before them, and every sail spread, gliding softly yet swiftly 
on her course, they beheld the longed-for vessel receding from 
their sight. 

For one minute they stood, gazing on the departing ship, 
as mute, as feelingless as stone, save to the horrible conscious- 
ness that flight was over, all hope of escape must be vain. But 
great emergencies prevent the continuance of despair. Ere 
Julian had recovered the stupor of alike disappointment and 
dread, Inez had hailed a boatman, and drawing a diamond 
ring of immense value from her hand, bade him place her in 
safety on board the English ves el, and it should be his. The 
man hesitated, then swore it wms wmrth the trial, and very 
speedily a boat was ready, manned by four stout rowers impa- 
tient as herself. 

“ And now farewell, dear Julian !” she said, calmly, taking 
the parcel from his hand, and looking in his astonished face 
with her own sweet smile. ‘‘You go no farther; I will not 
risk your life, so precious to your wife and children, because I 
weakly fear to meet my destiny alone. Do not attempt to ar- 
gue with me ; it will be useless, as you ought to know. Look 
to my poor boy ; he needs you more than I do.” Her voice 
sunk to a thrilling whisper : “ The God we both serve bless 
you, and keep you from a similar fate.” 

She wrung his hand, and lightly springing into the boat, it 
was pushed off, and rapidly cutting the yielding waters, ere 
Julian Alvarez recovered sufl&ciently from his emotion to speak 
even a farewell word. And now, with feelings wrought almost 
to agony, he wmtehed a chase seemingl}^ so utterly vain. For 
some time the vessel still kept ahead, but the eflforts of the 
rowers in no degree relaxed. He heard their stentorian hail 
repeated by the innumerable echoes on the shore, but still 
chere seemed no answer. Again, and yet again I It is fancy 


THE FUGITIVE. 


113 


No, the sails arc lowered, the vessel’s speed is diminished, till 
the boat appears almost alongside. Julian strained his gaze, 
while his very heart felt to have ceased beating, in the sicken- 
ing fear that even now her flight might be prevented by a re- 
fusal to receive- her. He could discern no more, for twilight 
had gathered round him, and interminable seemed the interval 
till the boat returned with the blessed assurance that the Se* 
nora was safe on board. 

Night fell; the lovely southern night, with its silvery 
moonshine on the gleaming, waters, its glistening stars, ap- 
pearing suspended in the upper air as globes of liquid light, 
with its fresh, soft breezes, bearing such sweet scents from 
the odoriferous shores, that a poet might have fancied angelic 
spirits were abroad, making the atmosphere luminous with 
their pure presence, and every breeze fragrant with their lus- 
cious breath. 

Inez sat upon the deck, a fugitive, and alone. She who, 
only the evening previous, had been the centre of a brilliant 
group, whose halls had sounded with the voice of revelry, the 
blithesome dance, whence aught of sorrow seemed so far away 
as to be but a name, not a reality. To us, looking back on 
the extraordinary fact of the most Catholic kingdoms being 
literally peopled with secret Jews, whose property and life 
might be sacrificed from one hour to another, it appears in- 
comprehensible that security or happiness could ever have ex- 
isted, and still more difficult to understand what secret feeling 
it was which thus bound them to a country where, acknow- 
ledged or discovered, Judaism was death, when there were 
other parts of the globe where they could be protected and 
received. Ye"’ so it was; and there are still families in Eng- 
land to trace their descent from those who. like the Senora 
Benito, were compelled to fly at an hour’s warning, saving lit- 
tle else than life. 

Som^ spirits would have sunk under a misfortune so sud- 
den, so overwhelming in its details ; but Inez rose above it. 
She had nothing to look to but her own resources ; the few 
valuables she had secreted would, she knew, soon be exhaust 
ed, did she depend on them alone. She was going to a land 
where she knew not one, her only credentials being a letter 
hurriedly written by her cousin to one of his friends in Lon- 
don. Loneliness, privation, care, and even manual toil, all 
awaited her, child as she had been of luxury and wealth, lav- 
ish as it was believed exhaustless ; yet. tu: she looked forth on 


lU 


THE FUGIITVE. 


the glorious night, with her starlit dome, as she inhaled the 
sweet breath of a thousand flowers floating on the breeze, she 
knew she was not forsaken. He who cared for all nature, 
would still more care for her, and, when the spirit is at peace, 
how lightly is all of sorrow borne. 

The unusual stir in the harbour, which they reached about 
midnight, attracted the attention not only of Inez, but of the 
captain and crew. On stopping at the quay for passengers 
and freight, he was told that the vessel must remain at anchor, 
no English ship being allowed to leave the harbour until it 
had received a visit from the officers of the Inquisition, in 
search of a female fugitive suspected of Judaism, who, having 
effectually disappeared from her home, was supposed to have 
taken refuge in some English vessel, the general receivers of 
heretics and unbelievers. 

“ I halt not at any man’s beck or bidding !” was the proud 
reply. “ England owns no Inquisitional supremacy. Had any 
such fugitive taken refuge in my ship, no power of the Inqui- 
sition, backed by the whole kingdom, should force me to give 
her up.” 

Time for reply or seizure there was none. Every sail 
spread at the word of command, and almost bending beneath 
her weight of canvas, the gallant ship, with her right English- 
hearted crew, sped on to sea. 

Inez had seen all, felt all ; but though her heart beat 
quicker, no word or sign betrayed it. She saw the captain 
look hastily on her, and for a terrible moment she knew not 
whether the glance of discovery — for such it was — would be 
followed by her surrender or her safety. His words speedily 
reassured her, and sent her to the berth provided for her com- 
fort, with more care than for any other passenger, with the 
grateful feeling that all of danger was indeed at end. She 
was in England’s keeping, and no Inquisition could work her 
harm. 

Nor was it the mere excitement of misfortune which so 
endowed her with courage to endure. She retained not only 
firmness but liveliness during the voyage, and when received 
in England with the most hospitable kindness by Julian’s 
friends, gaily consulted them on the best means of subsistence 
— whether to take in plain work or enter upon the business 
of fancy confectionary, for both of which her convent educa- 
tion had well fitted her. And what with her brilliant beauty, 
her sparkling wit, and readiness of repartee, ere two days had 
passed she had completely fascinated old and young. 


THK FUGITIVE. 


115 


The evening of the third day Mr. Nunez’s family had 
been engaged to spend with a friend living a few miles from 
London. On sending to state that a Portuguese lady staying 
with them would prevent their going, an entreaty was in- 
stantly forwarded that she would accompany them. 

“ What, go ! and my whole wardrobe consists of this one 
dress ?” was her laughing reply. “ I shall bring shame on 
your fashionable reputation, my kind friends.” 

They assured her that dress was of little consequence, and, 
even if it were, she need not be alarmed, being more likely to 
bring them fame by the fashion of her face than shame by the 
plainness of her robe ; which, by the way, a rich black velvet, 
set off the dazzling clearness of her complexion more be- 
comingly than the most carefully assorted garb. 

To the house of their friend, in consequence, they went; 
and the beautiful stranger, with her broken English, sweetly 
spoken Portuguese, and most romantic story, soon commanded 
universal attention. 

Towards the middle of the evening a rapidly approaching 
carriage, followed by a thundering rap, announced the arrival 
of some new guest. 

“ That is Azavedo,” observed one, I know him by the 
sound of his four horses. A strange fancy that, always sport- 
ing a carriage and four, when in everything else he has no pre- 
tension whatever. Did you expect him, Cordoza ?” he asked 
of his host. 

“ He said he might look in on his way to Epping,” was the 
reply. 

“ What a changed man he is,” said another ; “ I remember 
when he literally loathed society, and shrunk from beauty, 
male or female, as if it stung him by the contrast with him- 
self.” 

“ I have never heard him admire a woman yet though,” 
rejoined the first speaker. “ I wonder if he will notice the 
beauty of to-night ?” 

Azavedo entered as he spoke, and after addressing his 
host and hostess, began an earnest conversation with a friend 
near them. 

A low musical laugh from the centre of a merry group at 
the opposite end of the large drawing-room caused Azavedo 
suddenly so to start, with such an indescribable change of 
countenance, as to impel the anxious query whether he were 
ill. He answered hurriedly in the negative, but his friend 
6 


116 


THE FUGITIVE. 


perceiving bis eye fixed on the group, eagerly entered on tbe 
story of the stranger, from whom the laugh had come, inviting 
him to join the circle round her. Somewhat hesitatingly he 
did so. luez, in compliance with the customs of her own coun- 
try, still wore her veil, which, in answer to the inquiry of some 
one near her as to the different fashions of wearing it in Por- 
tugal, she had drawn so closely round her as to hide every 
feature. 

“ Tell her that it is not the custom of English ladies to 
wear veils,” whispered Azavedo to his hostess, in tones of 
such strong and most unusual excitement, that she looked at 
him as if in doubt of his identity. His hint was acted upon, 
however, and Inez, with winning courtesy, soon after laid aside 
her veil. 

Azavedo had become in iOme degree a man of the world ; 
and it was well he was, or he might have found it difficult so 
to suppress inward emotion as to conceal it from those around 
him. He looked once more on the being who for four long 
years had in secret so occupied his heart, as never to permit 
the entrance of another image, or the faintest thought of 
another love. She was there, not only yet more radiant in 
finished lovliness than when he had first beheld her, but 
free, and of his own race and creed. And so exquisite were 
the feelings of the moment, that he feared to be introduced, 
lest her first glance upon his face, if it revealed the 
horror that he believed it would, should sentence him to 
misery. 

That he had trembled needlessly was proved by his never 
leaving her side that evening. The lively spirits of the young 
stranger appeared, by some extraordinary species of mesmer- 
ism, to call forth the same from him ; and he conversed more 
brilliantly, more unreservedly, tlian he had ever before been 
known to do. 

Judah Azavedo pursued his journey to his country-house, 
and Inez quietly fixed her residence with a Jewish family in 
I^ondon, and pursued her intention of taking in plain work ; 
giving no more thought of her former affluence, save to wish 
that part had been spared for her boy, who, through the 
efforts of Padre Jose and Julian Alvarez, joined her about 
three weeks after her flight, bringing the information that 
every article belonging to her had been seized and con- 
fiscated. 

Twice a week, then three tiines, and at length every day, 


THE FUGITIVE. 


117 


did Azavf'do, on some pretence or other, visit the fair fugi* 
give. Folks talked and wondered, but for once he heeded 
neither. But why prolong our tale, claimed as it is by truth, 
however it may read like fiction? Not six weeks after Inez 
left Portugal, a fugitive for her very life, she became the wife 
of Judah Azavedo, the richest Hebrew in London, and the 
possessor of a love as warm and unwavering as was ever felt 
by man. But did she — could she — return it? Reader, we 
will not blazon the simplicity of truth with the false colouring 
of romance. She did not love him, in the general acceptation 
of the term, and she told him so, beseeching him to withdraw 
his offer, if his heart could not rest satisfied with the respect 
and gratitude which alone she felt. He thanked her for her 
candour, but the hand was not withdrawn, and they were 
married. Some biographers stop here, bidding the curious 
reader probe not too deeply into the history of wedded life. 
As regards our heroine, however, we shrink not from the probe. 
The romance of love before marriage she might not have 
known, but its reality afterwards she made so manifest, even 
when disease, joined to other infirmities, so tried her husband 
as to render him fretful and irritable, that there are still liv- 
ing some to assert that never was wife more tenderly affec 
tionate, more devotedly faithful than was Inez Azavedo. Her 
extraordinary beauty seemed invulnerable to age, for I have 
heard it said that even in her cofl&n, and she lived to the full 
age of mortality, she retained it still. 


file ^birf. 

A TALE OF 1492 . 

“ The love that bids the patriot rise to guard his country’s rest, 

With deeper mightier fulness thrills in woman’s gentle breast.”— MS 

“And we must wander witheringly, 

In other lands to die ; 

And where our father’s ashes be, 

Our own may never lie.” — B yron. 

“ Then thou wouldst not leave this beautiful vaHey even with 
me. Josephine?” 

“ Nay, thouknowest thou dost but jest, Imri ; thou wouldst 
not give me such a painful alternative?” 

“ How knowest thou that, love ?” Perchance I may grow 
jealous even of thy country, an it hold so dear a place in thy 
gentle breast, and seek a home elsewhere — to prove if thy 
love of Imri be dearer than thy love of land.” 

“ I know thou wouldst do no such thing, my Imri ; so 
play the threatening tyrant as thou mayest. I’ll not believe 
thee, or lessen by one throb the love of my land, which shares 
my heart with thee. I know too well, thy heart beats true as 
mine; thou wouldst not take me hence.” 

“ Never, my best beloved. Our children shall rove where 
we have roved, and learn their father’s faith uninjured by 
closer commune with its foes. Here, where the exiles of 
Israel for centuries have found a peaceful home, will we rest, 
my Josephine, filling the little hearts of our children with 
thanksgiving that there is one spot of earth where the wan- 
dering and the persecuted may repose in peace.” 

“And surely it is for this cause the love we bear our 
country is so strong, so deep, that the thought of death is less 
bitter than the dream of other homes. We stand alone in 
our peculiar and most sainted creed, alone in our law. alone 
in our lives on earth, in our hopes for heaven. Our doom is 
to wander accursed and houseless over the broad earth, ex- 


THE EDICT. 


119 


posed to all tlie misery which man may inflict, without the 
puwer to retaliate or shun. Surely, oh, surely then, the home 
that is granted must be doubly dear — so sheltered from out- 
ward ill, so blessed with inward peace, that it might seem we 
alone were the inhabitants of Spain. Oh ! it is not only mem- 
ory that hallows every shrub and stream and tree — it is the 
consciousness of safety, of peace, of joy, which this vale en- 
shrines, while all around us seemeth strife and gloom. Dearest 
Imri, is it marvel that I love it thus 

The speaker was a beautiful woman of some two or three 
and twenty summers. There was a lovely finished roundness 
of form, a deep steady lustre in her large black eye, a full 
ripe red on her beautiful lip, a rose soft yet glowing as the 
last tinge of sunset beaming, in the energy of her words, upon 
a cheek usually more pale — all bespeaking a stage of life some- 
what past that generally denominated girlhood, but only press- 
ing the threshold of the era whi^h follows. Life was still 
bright and fresh, and buoyant as youth would paint it ; but in 
the heart there were depths and feelings revealed that were 
never known to girlhood. Her companion, some three or four 
years her senior, presented a manly form, and features more 
striking from their frankness and animation than any regular 
beauty. But there was one other individual, seated at some 
little distance from the lovers (for such they were), whose pe- 
culiar and affecting beauty would rivet the attention to the 
exclusion of all else. He was a slight boy, who had evidently 
not seen more than ten years, though the light in the dark blue 
eye, so deep, so concentrated in its expression, that it seemed 
to breathe forth the soul ; the expression ever lingering round 
his small delicately pencilled mouth appeared to denote a 
strength and formation of character beyond his years. His 
rich chestnut hair, long and gracefully curling, fell over his light 
blue vest nearly to his waist, and, parted in the centre, expos- 
ed a brow of such transparent fairness, so arched and high 
that it scarce appeared natural to his Eastern origin and Spa- 
nish birth. Long lashes, much darker than his hair, almost 
concealed the colour of the eye, save when it was fixed full on 
those who spoke to him, and shaded softly, yet with a mourn- 
ful expression, the pale and delicate cheek, to which exertion 
or emotion alone had power to bring the frail and fieeting rose. 
An indescribable plaintiveness pervaded the countenance ; 
none could define wherefore, or why his very smile would gush 
on the heart like tears. He was seated on the green sward. 


120 


THE EDICT. 


weaving some beautiful flowers into a garland or wreath, in 
perfect silence, although he was not so far removed from his 
companions as to be excluded from their conversation, could 
he have joined in it. Alas ! those lips had never fiamed a 
word ; no sound had ever reached his ear. 

An animated response from Imri followed his Josephine’s 
last eager words ; and the boy, as if desirous of partaking their 
emotion whatever it might be, bounded towards them, placing 
his glowing wreath on the brow of Josephine with a fond ad- 
miring glance, calling on Imri by a sign to admire it with 
him ; then nestling closer to her bosom, inquired in the same 
manner the subject of their conversation ; and when told, there 
was no need of language to speak the boy’s reply. He glanced 
eagerly, almost passionately, around him ; he stretched forth 
his arms, as if embracing every long-loved object, and then he 
laid his hand on his heart, as if the image of each were reflect- 
ed there, and stretched himself on the mossy earth, as if there 
should be his last long sleep. He pointed to distant mountains, 
made a movement with his hands, to denote the world beyond 
them, then turned shudderingly away, and laid his head on the 
bosom of his nearest and dearest relative on earth. 

The situation of the valley of Eshcol was in truth such as 
to inspire enthusiasm in colder hearts than Josephine’s. Form- 
ed b}’ one of the many breaks in the Sierra Morena, and shar- 
ing abundantly the rich vegetation which crowns this ridge of 
mountains nine mouths in the year, it appeared set apart by 
Nature as a guarded and blessed haven of peace for the weary 
wanderers of Israel ; who, when the Roman spoiler desolated 
their holy land, tradition said there found a resting-place. 
Lofty rocks and mountains hemmed it round, throwing as it 
were a natural barrier between the valley and the world be- 
yond. The heath, the rosemary, the myrtle, and the cistus 
grew in rich profusion amidst the cliffs; while below, the 
palm, the olive, the lemon, orange and almond, interspersed 
with flowering shrubs of every variety, marked the site of the 
hamlet, and might mournfully remind the poor fugitives of the 
yet richer and holier land their fathers’ sins had forfeited. 
To the east, a thick grove of palm, cedar, and olive surrounded 
the lowly temple, where for ages the simple villagers worship- 
ped the God of Israel as their fathers did. Its plain and solid 
architecture resisted alike the power of storm and time ; and 
it was the pride of every generation to preserve it in the pri- 
mitive simplicity of the past. Innumerable streams, issuing 


THE EDICT. 


121 


from the mountains, watered the vale : some flowing with a 
silvery murinur and sparkling li^ht, others rushing and leap- 
ing over crags, their prominences hid in the snowy foam, creat- 
ing alike variety' and fertility. The brilliant scarlet flower of 
the fig marigold mingled with the snowy blossoms of the 
myrtle, peeping forth from its dark glossy ’eaves, formed a rich 
garland around the trunks of many a stalwart tree; and often 
at the sunset hour the perfume of the orange and almond, the 
balsamic fragrance of the cistus, mingling with, yet apart from 
the others, would float by on the balmy pinions of the summer 
breeze, adding indescribably to the soothing repose and natural 
magic of the scene. 

But it was not the mere beauty of nature which sunk so 
deeply on the hearts of the Eshcolites, as to create that species 
of iimor patrice^ of which Josephine’s ardent words were but 
a faint reflection ; it was' the fact that it was, had been, and 
they fondly hoped ever would be, to them a second Judea. 
Its very name had been bestowed by the unhappy fugitives 
from the destruction of Jerusalem, who hailed its natural love- 
liness as their ancestors did the first fruits of the land of pro- 
mise. Throughout the whole of Spain, indeed, the sons of 
Israel were scattered, far more numerously and prosperously 
than in any other country. Despite her repeated revolutions, 
her internal wars, her constant change of masters, the Hebrews 
so continued to flourish that the whole commerce of the king- 
dom became engrossed by them ; and occupying stations of 
eminence and trust — the heads of all seminaries of physic and 
literature — they commanded veneration even from the enemies 
and persecutors of their creed. 

With the nation at large, however, our simple narrative 
does not pretend to treat. Century after century found the 
little colony of Eshcol flourishing and happy ; acknowledging 
no law but that of Moses, no God but Him that law revealed. 
It mattered not to them whether Mahommedan or Nazarene 
claimed supremacy in Spain. Schism and division were un- 
known amongst them ; the same temple received their simple 
u orship from age to age ; for if it chanced that the more eager, 
the more ambitious spirits sought more stirring scenes, they 
returned to the simplicity of their fathers, conscious they had 
no power to alter, and satisfied that they could not improve. 

Varying in population from three to five hundred families, 
actuated by the same interests, grief and joy became as it 
were the common property of all — the one inexpressibly sooth- 


122 


THE EDICT. 


ed, the other heightened by sympathy — the vale of Eshcol 
seemed marked out as the haven of peace, The poet, the 
minstrel, the architect, the agriculturist, even the sculptor, 
were often found amongst its inmates, flourishing, and vene- 
rated as men more peculiarly distinguished by their merciful 
Creaior than their fellows. The sins that convulse kingdoms 
and agitate a multitude to them were unknown ; for the sedi- 
tious, the restless, the ambitious sought a wider field, bidding 
an eternal farewell to the vale, whose peaceful insipidity they 
spurned. Crimes were punished by banishment, perpetual or 
for a specified time, according to the guilt ; liable indeed to 
death, if the criminal returned^ but of this the records of Esh- 
col present no example. 

Situated in the southern ridge of the Sierra Morena, on 
the eastern extremity of Andalusia, and consequently at the 
very entrance of the Moorish dominions, yet Nature’s care 
had so fortified the vale, that it had remained both uninjured 
and undiscovered by the immense armies of Ferdinand and 
Isabella, who for ten years had overrun the beautiful province 
of Grenada, and now, at the commencement of our narrative, 
had completed its reduction, and compelled the last of the 
Caliphs to acknowledge their supremacy in Spain. Misery 
and death were busy within ten miles of the Hebrew colony, 
but there they entered not. Some aspiring youths had in 
truth departed to join the contending hosts ; but by far the 
greater number, more indifferent to the fate of war, cared not 
on which side the banner of victory might wave — their affec- 
tions centred so strongly on the spot of earth at once their 
birthplace and their tomb, that to depart from it seemed the 
very bitterness of death. 

Tedious as this digression may seem, it is necessary for 
the clear comprehension of our narrative ; for the appreciation 
of that feeling of amor patrioe. which is its basis ; an emotion 
experienced in various degrees by every nation, but by the 
Jew in Spain with a strength and intensity equalled by none 
End understood but by a Jew. 

Josephine Castello, in whom this feeling was resting yet 
more powerfully than in her compeers, was regarded as an 
orphan, and as such peculiarly beloved ; 3^et an orphan she 
was not. The youth of her father, Simeon Castello, had been 
marked by such ungovernable passions, as to render him an 
object of doubt and dread to all ; with the sole exception of 
one — the meekest, gentlest, most timid girl of Eschol. Per* 


THE EDICT. 


123 


haps it was the contrast with herself — the generous temper, 
the frank and winning smile, the hold character of his strik- 
ing beauty, or the voiceless magic which we may spend whole 
lives in endeavouring to define, and which only laughs at our 
wisdom — but Rachel Asher loved him, so faithfully, so un 
changeably, that it stood the test of many months, nay years, 
of wandering on the part of Simeon, who on each return to 
the vale appeared more restless, more wayward than before. 

Men said he was incapable of loving, and augured sorrow 
and neglect for the gentle Rachel, even when, seendngly 
touched by her meek and timid loveliness, he bent his proud 
spirit to woo her love, and was accepted. They were married ; 
and some few years of quiet felicity appeared to belie the 
prognostics of the crowd* But soon after the birth of a 
daughter, the wandering propensities of her father again ob- 
tained ascendency ; and for months, and then years, he would 
be absent from his home. 

Uncomplainingly Rachel bore this desertion, for he was 
ever fond when he returned ; and even when she once ventured 
to entreat permission to accompany him, it was with soothing 
affection, not harsh repulse, he refused, assuring her, though 
honoured and trusted by the Nazarene, he was seldom more 
than a month at one place ; and he could not offer delicate 
females the quiet settled home they needed. Rachel could 
have told him that privation and hardship with him would be 
hailed as blessings, but she knew her husband’s temper, and 
acquiescing, sought comfort in the increasing intelligence and 
beauty of her child. 

Ten years thus passed, and then Simeon, as if involun- 
tarily yielding to the love of his wife and child, declared his 
intention of never again seeking the Nazarene world, and for 
two years he adhered to bis resolution ; at the end of that 
time hailing with pleasure the promise of another little one, 
to share with Josephine the afiection he lavished upon her. 
This sudden change of character could not pass unnoticed by 
his fellows ; and no man being more tenacious of his honour 
than Simeon Gastello, it was of course exposed to many asper- 
sions, which his passionate temper could not brook. 

It happened in a jovial meeting of youngsters when some- 
what heated by excitement and wine, that the character and 
actions of Gastello were canvassed somewhat more freely than 
sobriety would have ventured. One of them at length re 
marked, that in all probability he was glad to avail himself of 


124 


THE EDICT 


the retreat of Eshcol, to eschew the hundred eyes of justice 
or revenge. 

“ riien die in thy falsehood, liar !” were the words that, 
uttered in thunder, startled the assembly. “ The man lives 
not who dares impugn the honour of Gastello !” and the hap- 
less youth sunk to the earth before them, stricken unto death. 
The speechless horror of all around might easily have per- 
mitted flight, but Gastello scorned it. He l^ew his doom, 
and met it in stern unflinching silence ; — to wander forth alone, 
with the thoughts of blood clinging to his conscience, till the 
mandate of his God summoned him to answer for his crime ; 
— death, if he ever ventured to insult the sacred precincts of 
his native vale by seeking to return. 

The voice of his father faltered not, as from his seat ol 
judgment, amid the elders of his people, he pronounced this 
sentence. His cheek blanched not as the wife and child of 
the murderer flung themselves at his feet, beseeching per- 
mission to accompany the exile. It could not be. Nay more, 
did he return, the law was such, that his own wife or child 
must deliver him up to justice, or share the penalty of his 
crime. Hour by hour beheld the wretched suppliants plead- 
ing for mercy, but in vain. 

Nor did this more than Roman firmness (for it was based 
on love not stoicism) desert him when, in agonized remorse, 
his son besought his forgiveness and his blessing. He con- 
fessed his sin, for he felt it such. No provocation could call 
for blood. And headstrong and violent as were the passions 
of Simeon Gastello, his father believed in his remorse, his 
penitence ; for he knew deeds of blood were foreign to his 
nature. He raised his clasped hands to heaven, he prayed 
that the penitence of the sinner might be accepted, he spoke 
his forgiveness and his blessing, and then flinging his arms 
around his son, his head sunk upon his shoulder. Minutes 
passed and there was no sound — the Hebrew father had done 
his duty ; but his heart had broken — he was dead ! 

From the moment she was released from the parting em- 
brace of her doubly-wretched husband, and her strained eyes 
might no longer distinguish his retreating figure, no word 
escaped the lips of Rachel. For the first time, she looked 
on the sorrow of her poor child, without any attempt to 
soothe or console. She resumed her usual duties, but it was 
as if a statue Uad been endowed with movement. Nor could 
the entreaties of her aged grandfather, her sole remaining 


THE EDICT. 


125 


relative, nor the caresses of Josephine, wring even one word 
of suffering from her lips. 

A week passed, and Josephine held a little brother in her 
arms; the looks of her mother appeared imploring her to 
cherish and protect him, and kneeling, she solemnly swore to 
make him the first object of her life ; — belief beamed in the 
eyes of the dying — her look seemed beseeching the blessing 
of heaven on them both ; but Josephine yearned in vain fcr 
the sweet accents of her voice — she never spoke again. 

From that hour, the gay and sprightly child seemed 
changed into premature and sorrowing womanhood. She 
stood alone of her race. Alone, with the sole exception of 
that aged relative, who had seen his children and children’s 
children fall around him, and her infant brother. She shrunk 
in her sensitiveness, from the young companions who would 
have soothed her grief She did not fear that the crime of her 
father would be visited upon her innocent head, for such feel- 
ings were unknown to the simple government of Eshcol ; but 
her loneliness, the shock which had crushed every hope and 
joy of youth, caused her to cling closer to her aged relative, 
and direct every energy to the welfare of her young and — as, 
alas ! she too soon discovered — aflQicted brother. She watched 
his increase in strength, intelligence, and loveliness, and pic- 
tured in vivid colouring the delight which would attend his 
instruction • she longed intensely for the moment when her 
ear should, be blessed by the sweet accents of his voice. 
That moment came not! the affliction of her mother had 
descended to the child she bore, and Josephine, in irrepressi- 
ble anguish, became conscious that not only was his voice with- 
held from her, but hers might never reach his ear. 

Her deep affection for him, however, roused her from this 
mournful conviction ; and energetically she sought to render 
his affliction less painfnl than it had appeared, and she suc- 
ceeded. She led him into the fields of nature — every spot 
became to the child a fruitful source of intelligence and love, 
providing him with language, even in inanimate objects ; by 
his mother’s grave she instilled the thoughts of God and 
heaven, of their peculiar race and history; of the God of 
Israel’s deep love and long-suffering; and she was under* 
stood — though to what extent she knew not, imagined not, 
till the hour of trial came. That she was inexpressibly as- 
sisted by the child’s rapid conception of the good and evil, 
of the sublime and oeautiful — by his extraordinary intellect 


126 


THE EDICT. 


and truly poet’s soul, is true, but the lowly spirit of J'osephita 
felt as if a special blessing had attended her task, and urged 
yet further efforts for his improvement. 

By means of waxen tablets, formed by the hand of Irari 
Benalmar, she taught him to read and write. Leading his 
attention to familiar objects, she would write down their ap- 
propriate names, and familiarising his eye to the writing, he 
gradually associated the written word with the visible ob- 
ject. The rest was easy to a mind like his. The flushed 
cheek and sparkling eye denoted the intense delight with 
which he perused the manuscripts collected, and often adapted 
for his use by Imri, and poesy became his passion ; breathing 
in the simplest words, on his waxen tablets, the love he bore 
his devoted sister, and the pure, beautiful sentiments which 
filled his soul. 

The kindness of Imri to her Areli, passed not unfelt by 
the heart of Josephine. Tremblingly she became conscious 
that an emotion towards him was obtaining ascendency, which 
she deemed it her duty to conquer, or at least profoundly 
to hide. She could not forget the stigma on her name, and 
believed none could seek her love. The daughter of a mur- 
derer (for though the crime was involuntary, such he was) 
was lonely upon earth. Dignified and reserved, they would 
have thought her proud, had not her constant kindness, her 
total forgetfulii:5ss of self, in continually serving others, be- 
lied the thought ; but this they did think (and Imri Benal- 
mar himself, so well did she hide her heart), that her affec- 
tions were centred in her aged relative and her young 
brother. 

But when the magic words were spoken, when Imri 
Benalmar, whose unwavering piety and steady virtue had 
caused him to stand highest and dearest in the estimation of 
his fellows, young and old, conjured her with a respectful 
deference, which vainly sought to calm the passionate affec- 
tion of his soul, to bless him with her love, her trust — the 
long hidden feelings of Josephine were betrayed, their inmost 
depths revealed. Blessed, indeed, was that moment to them 
both. Fondly did Imri combat her arguments, that she had 
no right to burden him with the aged Asher and her helpless 
Areli, yet from them she could never consent to part. 

Had not Areli ever been dear to him as a brother — ^had 
be not always intended to prove himself such ?” he asked, 
^ith many other arguments of love ; and how might Jo 


THE EDICT. 1S7 

eephine reply, save with tears of strong emotion to consent to 
become bis bride '2 

J osef Asher heard of their engagement with delight ; hut 
he would not consent to burden them with his continued com- 
pany. True, he was old, but neither infirm nor ailing. He 
would retain possession of his own dwelling, which had descend- 
ed to him from many generations ; but the nearer his children 
resided, the greater happiness for him. 

Imri understood the hint, and, as if by magic, a picturesque 
little cottage, not two hundred yards from her native home, 
rose before the wondering eyes of Josephine ; and Areli, as 
he watched its progress, clapped his hands in childish joy, 
and sought to aid the workmen in their tasks. Presents from 
all, as is the custom of the Hebrew nation, were showered on 
the youthful couple, to enable them to commence housekeeping 
with comfort, or add some little ornament or useful article of 
furniture to the house or its adjoining lands. The more the 
fiancees were beloved, the greater source of public joy was a 
wedding in Eshcol. 

The conversation which the commencement of our tale in 
part records took place a few evenings previous to the day fixed 
for the nuptials. 

On leaving his sister and her betrothed, Areli betook 
himself, as was his custom, ere he joined the evening meal, 
to his mother’s grave, to water the flowers around it. and 
peruse, in his simple and innocent devotion, the little Bible 
which Josephine and Imri’s love had rendered into the 
simplest Spanish, from the Hebrew Scriptures of their race. 
The shades of evening had already fallen around the leafy 
shadowed place of tombs, but there was sufficient light re- 
maining for the boy to discern a cloaked and muffled figure 
prostrate before his mother’s grave, the head resting in a 
posture of inexpressible anguish on the cold marble of the 
tomb. The stranger’s form moved convulsively, and though 
Areli could distinguish no sound, he knew that it was grief 
on which ho gazed. Softly he approached, and laid his little 
hand on that of the stranger, who started in evident alarm, 
looking upon that angelic face with a strange mixture of be- 
wilderment and love. He spoke, but Areli shook his head 
mournfully, putting his arm around his neck caressingly, as 
if beseeching him to take comfort ; then, as if failing in his 
desired object, he hastily drew his tablets from his vest, and 
wrote rapidly — 


128 


THE EDICT. 


“ Poor Areli canoot speak nor hear, but he can feel ; do not 
weep, it is so sad to see tears in eyes like thine !” 

“ And why is it sad, sweet boy the stranger wrote in 
answer, straining him as he did so involuntarily closer to his 
bosom. 

“ Oh, man should not weep, and man like thee, who can 
list the sweet voice of nature, and the tones of all he loves ; 
who can breathe forth all he thinks, and feels, and likes. 
Tears are for poor Areli, and yet they do not come now as 
they did once ; for I have a father who loves, i-nd who can 
hear me too, though none else can.” 

“A father?” wrote the stranger. “Who is thy father, 
gentle boy ? Thou bearest a name I know not. Tell me who 
thou art.” 

“ Oh, I have no father that I may see and hear — none, 
that is, on earth ; but I love Him, for He smiles on me 
through the sweet flowers, and sparkling brooks, and beau- 
tiful trees ; and I know he loves me and cares for me, deaf 
and dumb and afflicted as I am, and He hears me when I ask 
Him to bless me and my sweet sister, and reward her for all 
she does for me. He is up — up there, and all around.” He 
stretched out his arms, pointing to the star-lit heavens and 
beautiful earth. “ My Father’s house is everywhere ; and 
when my body lies here, as my mother’s does, my breath will 
go up to Him, and Areli will be so happy — so happy !” 

“ Thy mother !” burst from the stranger’s lips, as though 
the child could hear him ; and his hand so trembled that ho 
could hardly guide the steel pencil which traced the wax. 

Who is thy mother — where does she lie?” 

Areli laid his hand on the tomb, pointing to the name of 
Rachel Gastello, there simply engraved. The effect almost 
terrified him. The stranger caught him in his arms — he press- 
ed repeated kisses on his cheek, his brow, his lips — clasping 
him, as if to release him were death. The child returned his 
caresses without either impatience or dissatisfaction. A.fter 
a while the stranger again wrote — 

“ Thy sister, sweet boy — is it she who hath taught tlieo 
these things — doth she live — is she happy ?” 

“ Oh, so happy ! and Imri, kind Imri, will make her happier 
si ill. Areli loves him next to Josephine, and grandfather 
and I am to live with them, and we are all happy. Oh, how I 
love J osephine ! I should have been so sad — so sad, had she 
not loved me, taught me all ; but come to her — she will make 


THE EDICT. 


129 


tliee happy too, and thou wilt weep no more. The coming 
meal waits for us both — wilt thou not come? Josephine will 
love thee, for thou lovest Areli.'*’ 

A deep agonized groan escaped from the stranger, vibrat- 
ing through his whole frame. Several minutes passed ere he 
could make reply, and then he merely wrote, in almost illegi- 
ble characters — 

I am not good enough to go with you, my child. Pray 
for me — love me : I shall remember thee.” 

And then again he folded him in his arms, kissed him pas- 
sionately, and disappeared in the gloom, ere Areli could de- 
tain him or perceive his path, though ho sprang forward to 
do so. 

The child watered his flowers more hastily than usual, 
evidently preoccupied by some new train of thought, which 
was shown by a rapid return to his grandfather’s cottage, 
and an animated recital, through signs and his tablets, of Ull 
that had occurred, adding an earnest entreaty to Imri to seek 
and find him. 

Josephine started from the table — the rich glow of her 
cheek faded into a death-like paleness, and, without uttering a 
syllable, she threw her mantle around her and hastily advanced 
to the door. Imri and even the aged Josef threw themselves 
before her. 

Whither wouldst Ihou go, Josephine, dearest Josephine? 
this is not well — whom wouldst thou seek ?” 

“My/«^Aer,” she replied, in a voice whose low deep tone 
betrayed her emotion. “ Shall he be lingering near, unheeded, 
uncared for by his child ? Imri, stay me not ; I must see 
him once again.” 

“ Thou must not, thou shalt not !” was Imri’s agonized 
reply, clasping her in his arms to prevent her progress. “ Jo- 
sephine, thy life is no longer thine own, to fling from thee thus 
as a worthless thing ; it is mine — mine by thine own free gift ; 
thou shalt not wrest it from me thus.” 

“ My child, seek not this stranger ; draw not the veil aside 
which he has wisely flung around him. The penalty to both 
may not be waived — thou mayst not see him^ save to proclaim 
— or die. My child, my child, leave me not in my old age 
alone ” 

The mournful accents of the aged man completed what the 
passionate appeal had begun. Josephine sunk on a seat near 
hun, and biu’st into an agony of tears. Areli clung round 


rso 


THE EDICT. 


her, terrified at the effect of his simple tale ; and for him 
she roused herself, warning him to repeat the tale to none, 
but indeed to grant the stranger’s boon, and remember him 
in his lowly prayers. Fearfully both Imri and Asher waited 
the morning, dreading lest its light should betray the stranger ; 
and thankfully did they welcome the close of that day and 
the next without his reappearance. A very different feeling 
actuated the afflicted Areli ; he sought him with the longing 
wish to look on his face again, for it haunted his fancy, lin- 
gered on his love — and a yet more hallowed spot became his 
mother’s tomb. 

The intervening days had passed, the affection of Imri 
bearing from the heart of Josephine its last lingering sad- 
ness, and enabling her to feel the anguish ,h^r impetuosity 
might have brought not only on her father and herself, but on 
all whom she loved. The first of May, her bridal morn, 
found her composed and smiling like herself She had 
placed her future fate, without one doubt or fear, in the 
keeping of Imri Benalmar, for the tremors and emotions ot 
modern brides were unknown to the maidens of Eshcol ; 
once only her calmness had been disturbed, when her young 
brother had approached her, and clasped his arms about her 
neck, and with glistening eyes had written his boyish love. 

“ Look at the sun, sweet sister ; how brightly and beauti- 
fully he shines, how soft and blue the sky, and the sweet 
dowers, and the little birds ! Oh, they all love thee, and 
can smile and sing their joy ! and gentle friends throng 
round thee, and speak loving words. Oh, why is poor 
Areli alone silent, when his heart is so full ? But he can 
pray, sweet sister ; pray as thou hast taught him ; and ho 
will pray his Father to give back to thee all which thou hast 
done for him.” 

Was it marvel that Josephine’s tears should fall over those 
fond words % But the boy’s caresses turned that dewy joy to 
softer smiles, as surrounded by her youthful companions she 
waited the entrance of her aged relative to conduct her to the 
temple. 

Three hours after noon the nuptial party there assembled, 
marriages among the Hebrews seldom being performed at an 
earlier hour. Twenty young girls dressed alike, and half 
that number of matrons, attended the bride ; and proudly 
did old Josef gaze upon her, as she leaned on his arm in all 
tlie grace and loveliness of beautiful womanhood, unoon 


THE EDICT. 


131 


Bcious how well it contrasted with his sinewy and aihletic 
form ; his silvery beard and hair alone betraying his four- 
score and fourteen years. There was no shadow of age 
upon his features, beaming as they were, in his quick sym- 
pathy, with all around him. The path was strewed with the 
fairest flowers, and the freshest moss, of varied hues, while 
rich garlands, interwoven with the blushing fruits, festooned 
the trees. The whole village wore the aspect of rejoicing, 
and every shade passed from the brow of the young Areli ; 
the flush deepened on his fair cheek, the intense blue of his 
beautiful eye so sparkled in light, that the eyes of all were 
upon him, till they glistened in strange tears. 

The bridegroom awaited the bride and her companions in 
the temple, attended by an equal number. The little ediflce 
was fllled, for marriages in Eshcol were ever solemnized in 
public ; the number that attended evincing the feelings with 
(vhich the betrothed were regarded. The ceremony com- 
menced, and, save the voice of the oflSciating priest, there was 
silence so profound, that the faintest sound could have been 
distinguished. 

As Josephine flung back her veil, at once to taste the 
sacred wine, and prove to Imri that no Leah had been sub- 
stituted for his Eachel, a distant trampling fell clearly on the 
still air. The service continued, but many looked up to the 
high casements as if in wonder. ' The sun still poured down 
his golden flood of light ; no passing cloud announced an ap- 
proaching storm, so to explain the unwonted sounds as dis- 
tant thunder. They came nearer and nearer still ; the tramp- 
ling of many feet seemed echoing from the mountain ground ; 
and at the moment Imri flung down the crystal goblet on the 
marble at his feet, as the conclusion of the solemn rites, the 
shrill blast of many trumpets and the long roll of the pealing 
drum were borne on the wings of a hundred echoes, far and 
near. Wild birds, whose rest had never before been so dis- 
turbed, rose screaming from their haunts, darkening the air 
with their flapping wings. Again and again, at irregular in- 
tervals, this unusual music was repeated ; but though alarm 
blanched many a maiden’s cheek, and the brows of the 
sterner sex became knit with indefinable emotion, the after- 
noon service, which ever follows the Jewish nuptials, continued 
undisturbed. 

The eyes of Josephine were fixed on Imri more in wonder 
than alarm, and Benalmar had folded his arm round her 


132 


THE EDICT. 


and whispered, “ Mine, mine in woe or in weal ; mine thott 
art. and wilt be, love ! whatever ill these martial sounds fore- 
bode.” 

A smile so bright, so confiding, was the answer, that even 
had he not felt her cling closer to his heart, Imri would have 
been satisfied. A sudden paleness banished the rich flush 
from thf cheek of the deaf and dumb ; lie relinquished his 
station under the canopy which had been held over the bride 
and bridegroom during the ceremony, and drew closer to 
them. He had hea'id indeed no sound ; but so keen are the 
other senses of the deaf and dumb, that many have been 
known to feel what they cannot hear. Areli could read, in a 
moment’s glance, the countenances of those around him, and 
at the same instant he became conscious of a thrilliLg sensa- 
tion creeping through his every vein. He took the hand of 
Imri and looked up inquiringly in his face. The answer was 
given, and the child resumed the posture of devotion, which his 
strange feelings had disturbed. 

The last words of the presiding priest were spoken, and 
there was silence ; even the sounds without were hushed, and 
a voiceless dread appeared to withhold those within from seek- 
ing the cause. There was evidently a struggle ere the usual 
congratulations could be oflFered to the young couple ; and so 
preoccupied was the attention of all, that the absence of Areli 
was unnoticed, till, as trumpet and drum again pierced the 
thin air h ' darted back, and with hasty and agitated signs re- 
lated what he had beheld. 

“ Soldiers, many soldiers ? It may be so ; yet wherefore 
this alarm, my children ?” exclaimed the aged Asher, stepping, 
firmly forward, and speaking in an accent of mild reproof. 
“What can ye fear? Nazarene and Mahomraedan have oft- 
times found a shelter in this peaceful valley ; fearlessly thej 
came, uninjured they departed. Wrong we have never done 
to man; peace and goodwill have been our watchword ; where- 
fore, then, should we tremble to meet these strangers ? My 
children, the God of Israel is with us still.” 

The cloud passed from the brows of his hearers. The 
young maidens emulated the calm firmness of the bride, and 
gathering round her, followed their male companions from the 
temple. The spot on which the sacred edifice stood command- 
ed a view of the village market-place, which, from its occupy- 
ing the only level ground half a mile square, was surrounded 
by all the low dwellings of the artizans, and was often the 


THE EDICT. 


f33 


place of public meeting, when any point was discussed re 
quiring the suffrages of all the male population. This space 
was now filled with Spanish soldiers, some on horseback, others 
on foot ; while far behind, scattered in groups amongst the 
rocks, many a steel morion flung back the sun’s glisten- 
ing rays. The villagers startled and amazed, had assembled 
on all sides, and even Josef Asher for a moment paused, as- 
tonished. 

“ Let us on, my children,” he said, “ and learn the mean- 
ing of this unusual muster. Yet stay,” he added, as several 
young men hastened forward to c oey him : “ they are about 
to speak ; we will hear first what they proclaim.” 

Another flourish of drums and trumpets sounded as he 
spoke, and then one of the foremost cavaliers, attired as a 
herald, drew from his bosom a parchment roll. The officers 
around doffed their helmets, and he read words to the following 
import : — 

“ From the most high and mighty sovereigns, Ferdinand 
and Isabella, joint-sovereigns of Arragon and Castile, to 
whose puissant arms the grace of God hath given dominion 
over all heretics and unbelievers, before whose banner of the 
Holy Cross the Moorish abominations have crumbled into 
dust — to our loyal subjects of every principality and province, 
of every rank, and stage, and calling, of every grade and every 
state, these — to which we charge you all in charity give good 
heed. 

“ Whereas we have heard and seen that the Jews of our 
state induce many Christians to embrace Judaism, particularly 
the nobles of Andalusia ; for this they are banished from our 
domains. Four months from this day, we grant them to for- 
swear their abominations and embrace Christianity, or to de- 
part ; pronouncing death on every J ew found in our kingdom 
after that allotted time. 

“ {Signed) Ferdinand and Isabella. 

“ Given at our palace of Segovia this thirtieth day of March^ 

of the year of grace one thousand four hundred and 

ninety -two?'' 

As a thunderbolt falling from the blue and cloudless sky — 
as the green and fertile earth yawning in fathomless chasms 
beneath their feet, so, but more terribly, more vividly still, 
did this edict fall on the faithful hearts who heard. A 
sudden pause, and then a cry, an agonized cry of horror and 
despair, burst simultaneously from young and old, woman 


134 


TH^ EDICT. 


aDd cliild ; and then, as awakened from that stupor of woo 
wilder shouts arose, and the nery youth of Eshcol gathered 
tumultuously together, and shrill cries of “ Vengeance, ven- 
geance ! cut them down — rend the lying parchment into 
shreds, and scatter it to the four winds of heaven — thus will 
we defend our rights !” found voice, amid groans and hisses 
of execration and assault. A volley of stones fell among the 
Spaniards, who, standing firmly to their arms, appeared in 
the act of charging, when both parties were arrested by the 
aged patriarch of Eshcol rushing in their very centre, heeding 
not, nay, unconscious of personal danger, calling on them to 
forbear. 

“Are ye all mad?” he cried. “Would ye draw down 
further ruin on your devoted heads ? Think ye to cope with 
those armed by a sovereign mandate, backed by a mighty 
kingdom? Oh, for the love of your wives, your children, 
your aged, helpless parents, keep the peace, and let your elders 
speak !” 

Even at that moment their natural veneration foi old age 
had influence. Reproved and sorrowful, they shrunk back — 
the angry gesture calmed, the muttered execration silenced. 
Surrounded by his brother elders, Asher drew near the 
Spaniards, who, struck by his venerable age and commanding 
manner, consented to accompany him to the council-room 
near at hand, desiring their men on the severest penalties^ to 
create no disturbance. The edict was laid before them, its 
purport explained, enforced emphatically, yet kindly; for the 
Spaniards felt awed, in spite of themselves. But vainly the 
old men urgc4 that the given cause of their banishment 
could not extend to them. They had had no dealing with 
the Nazarene ; they lived to themselves alone ; they inter- 
fered not with the civil or religious government of the 
country, which had sheltei 2 d them from age to age ; they 
warred with none, offended none ; their very existence was 
often unsuspected ; they asked but liberty to live on as they 
had lived ; and would the sovereigns of Spain deny them 
this? It could not be. The Spaniards listened mildly ; but 
the edict had gone forth, they said, unto all and every class 
of Jews within the kingdom, and not one individual waa ex- 
empt from its sentence, save on the one condition — their em- 
bracing Christianity. It was true that many of their nation 
might be faithful subjects ; but even did their banishment in- 
volve loss to Spain, her sovereigns, impressed with religious 


THE EDICT. 


135 


EcaL welcomed tlie temporal loss as spiritual gain. If, indeed^ 
they could not comply with the very simple condition, they 
urged the old men instantly to depart, for one month out of 
the four had already elapsed, the edict bearing date the last 
day but one of the month of March. They added, the secluded 
situation of the valley had caused the delay, and might have 
delayed its proclamation yet longer, had not chance led them 
to these mountains in search of an officer of rank, who had 
wandered from them, and they feared had perished in the 
hollows. 

Even at that moment a chilling dread shot through the 
heart of the aged Asher. Could that officer be he whom Areli 
had seen but seven days previous ? He dared not listen to 
his heart’s reply, and gave his whole attention to that which 
followed. A second edict, the Spaniards continued to state, 
had been issued, prohibiting all Christians to supply the 
fugitives with bread or wine, water or meat, after the month 
of April. 

The old men heard ; there was little to answer, though 
much to feel ; and the sorrowing council occupied some time 
after the officers had retired. They wished to learn the con- 
dition of their wretched countrymen, and the real effects of 
this most cruel edict. The blow had descended so unexpect- 
edly, it seemed as if they could not, unless from the lips of 
an eyewitness, believe it true, and they decided on sending 
twenty of their young men to learn tidings, under the con- 
trol of one, calm, tirm, and dispassionate enough to restrain 
those acts of violence to which they had already shown 
such inclination. But who was this one ? How might they 
ask him 1 

The old men together sought the various groups, and ex- 
pressing their wishes, all were eager to obey. Josef Asher 
alone approached his children, who sat apart from their com- 
panions. He related all that had passed between them and 
the Spaniards, and then awhile he paused. 

“ Imri,” he said at length, “ my son, thou hast seen the 
misguided passion of our youth ; they must not go forth on 
this mission of unimpassioned observation alone. Our elders, 
the wise and moderate, must husband their little strength for 
their weary pilgrimage. Thou, my son, hast their wisdom, with 
ill the activity and energy of youth. We would that thou 
shouldst head this band; but a very brief absence is needed 
Canst thou consent 


136 


THE EDICT 


A low cry of sufifuring broke from the pale lips of Jo?o 
phine, and she threw her arms round Imri, as thus to chain him 
to her side. “ In such an hour wilt thou leave me, Imri ?” 
His lip quivered, his cheek paled, and the few words he uttered 
were heard bj her alone. “ Yes, yes, thou shalt go, my beloved ; 
heed not my woman’s weakness. Thou wilt return ; and 
then — then we will depart together.” Oh, what a world of 
agony did that one word speak. 

The instant departure of the younger villagers occasioned 
some surprise, but without further interference. Tho Spaniards 
began to pitch their tents amongst the rocky eminences, as 
preparing for some months’ emcampment. Had not the in- 
habitants of Eshcol felt that their cup of bitterness was al- 
ready full to the brim, the appearance of an armed force in 
the very centre of their peaceful dwellings would have added 
gall ; but every thought, feeling, and energy were merged in 
one engrossing subject of anguish. Some there were who re- 
jected all belief in the edict’s truth. They could not be banish- 
ed from the scenes in which they and their fathers had dwelt 
from age to age, in peace and bliss. Others felt their minds 
a void ; they asked no question of their elders, spoke not tc 
each other, but in strange and moody silence awaited the re- 
turn of Imri and his companio-ns. Nor could the obnoxious 
sight of a huge wooden crucifix, which the next morning 
greeted the eyes of every villager, rouse them effectually from 
the lethargy of despair. 

And Josephine, did she weep and moan, now that the fate 
she so instinctively dreaded had fallen ? Her tears were on 
her heart, lying there like lead, slowly yet surely undermining 
strength, and poisoning the gushing spring of life. In sobs 
and tears her young companions gathered round her, and she 
spoke of comfort and resignation, her gentle kindness sooth- 
ing many, and rousing them to hope, on the return of the 
young men, things might not be found so despairing as they 
now seemed. But when twilight had descended and all was 
hushed, Josephine led her young brother to her mother’s 
grave. She looked on his sweet face, paled with sympathetic 
sorrow, though as yet he knew not why he wept ; and she 
sought to speak and tell him all, but the, thought that his 
young joys, yet more than her own, were blighted — that, 
weakly and afflicted as he was, he too must be torn from fami- 
liar scenes and objects which formed his innocent pleasures, 
and encounter hardships and privations that stood in dread 


THE EDICT. 


137 


peiTipective before her — oh, was it strange that that noble 
spirit lost its firmness for the moment, and that sinking on 
the green sward, she buried her face in her hands, and sobbed 
in an intensity of suffering which found not its equal even 
midst the deep woe around her ? Areli knelt beside her ; 
he clasped her cold hands within his own ; he hid his head in 
her lap — seeking by all these mute caresses, which had never 
before appealed in vain, to restore her to composure. For his 
sake she roused herSelf ; she raised her tearful eyes to the 
star-lit heavens in silent prayer, and drawing him closer to her, 
commenced her painful task. Too well his reaay mind con' 
ceived her meaning. His beautiful lip grew white and quiver- 
ing — the dew of suffering stood upon his brow ; but he shed 
no tear — nay, he sought to smile, as thus to lessen his sister’s 
care. But when she told him the condition which was grant- 
ed, and bade him choose between the land of his love or the 
faith of his fathers — a change came over his features; he 
started from her side, the red flush rushing to his cheek; he 
drew his little Bible from his bosom, pressed it fervently to 
his lips and heart, shook his clenched fist in direction of the 
Spanish encampment, and then laid down beside the grave. 
‘‘ My boy, my boy, there spoke the blessed spirit of our race !” 
and tears of inexpressible emotion coursed down the cheek of 
Josephine, as she clasped him convulsively to her aching 
heart. Death and exile, aye, torture, thou wilt brave rather 
than desert thy faith. My God, my God, thou wilt be with 
us still !” 

It was not till the ninth day from their departure that 
Imri Benalmar and his companions returned. One glance 
sufficed to read their mournful tale. On all sides, they said 
they had beheld but cruelty and ruin, perjury or despair. 
From every town, from every province, their wretched breth- 
ren were flacking to the sea-coast — their homes, their lands 
left to the ruthless spoiler, or sold for one-tenth of their value. 
They told of a vineyard exchanged for a suit of clothes — a 
house, with all its valuables, for a mule. Their gold, silver, 
and jewels, prohibited either to be exchanged or carried away 
with them, became the prey of their cruel persecutors. Fam- 
ine and horror on^ every side assailed them ; many they had 
seen famishing on the roads, for none dared give them a bit 
of bread or a draught of water ; and even mothers were known 
to slay their own children, husbands their wives, to escape the 
agony of watching their lingering deaths. Their illustrious 


138 


THE EDICT. 


countryman, Isaac Abarbanel, Imri said, had offered an im 
mense sum to refill the coffers of Spain, emptied as they were 
by the Moorish war, would his sovereigns recall the fatal 
edict. They had appeared to hesitate, when Thomas de 
Torquemada, advancing boldly into the royal presence, raised 
high before them a crucifix, and bade them beware how they 
sold for a higher price Him whom Judas betrayed for thirty 
pieces of silver — to think how they would render an account 
of their bargain before God. He had prevailed, and the edict 
continued in full force. 

On a towering rock, in the centre of the mourning popu- 
lace, the aged Asher stood. He stretched forth his hands in 
an attitude of supplication, and tears and groans were hushed 
to a voiceless pause. There was a deep-red spot on the old 
man’s either cheek, but his voice was still firm, his attitude 
commanding. 

My children,” he said, “ we have heard our doom, and 
even as our brethren we must go forth. Let us not in our 
misery blaspheme the God who so long hath blessed us with 
prosperity and peace, and pour down idle curses on our foes. 
My children, cruel as they seem, they are but His tools ; 
and therefore, as to His decree, let us bow without a murmur. 
Have we forgotten that on earth the exiles of Jerusalem have 
no resting — that for the sins of our fathers the God of J ustice 
is not yet appeased? Oh, if we have, this fearful sentence 
may be promulgated to recall us to Himself, ere prosperity be 
to us, as to our misguided ancestors, the curse, hurling us into 
eternal misery. W e bow not to man ; it is the God of Israel 
we obey ! W e must hence ; for who amongst us will deny 
Him ? Tarry not, then, my children ; we are but few days’ 
journey from the sea, and in this are blest above our fel- 
lows. Waste not, then, the precious time allowed us in 
fruitless sorrow. There are some among ye who speak of 
weakness and timidity, in thus yielding to our foes without 
one blow in defence of our rights. Rights ! unhappy men, 
ye have no rights ! Sons of Judah, have ye yet to learn we 
are wanderers on the face of the earth, without a country, 
a king, a judge in Israel ? My children, we have but one 
treasure, which, if called upon, we can die to defend — tbe 
glorious faith our God himself hath given. To Him, then, 
let us unite in solemn prayer, beseeching His guidance in 
our weary pilgrimage — His forgiveness on our cruel foes ; 
and fearless and faithful we will go forth where His will may 
lead.” 


THE EDICT. 


139 


The old man knelt, and all followed his example ; and 
silence, deep as if that wild scene were desolate, succeeded 
those emphatic words. A fervent blessing was then pronounced 
bj the patriarch, and all departed to their homes. 

And now day after day beheld the departure of one or two 
families from' the village. We may dwell no longer on their 
feelings,. nor on those of their brethren in other parts of Spain. 
W e envy not those who feel no sympathy in that devotedness 
to a persecuted faith which could bid men go forth from their 
homes, their temples, the graves of their fathers, the schools 
where for centuries they had presided, honored even by their 
foes, and welcome exile, privation, misery of every kind, 
woes far worse than death, rather than depart fi Dm it. If 
they think we have exaggerated, let the skeptic look to the 
histories of every nation , in the middle ages, and they will 
acknowledge this simple narrative is but a faint outline of the 
sufferings endured by the persecuted Hebrews, and inflicted 
by those who boast their religion to be peace on earth and 
good-will to all men. 

Reduced from affluence to poverty, from every comfort, to 
the dim vista of every privation, without the faintest con- 
sciousness where to seek a home, or how to cross the ocean, 
did Imri Benalmar regret that he had now a wife and a 
young, helpless boy for whom to provide? Nay; that Jose- 
phine was his, ere this dread edict was proclaimed, was even 
at this moment a source of unalloyed rejoicing. He knew 
her noble spirit, and that, had not the solemn service been 
actually performed, she would have refused his protection, 
his love, and, rather than burden him with such increase of 
care, have lingered in that vale to die. That she was in- 
violably his own, endowed him, however, with an energy to 
bear, which, had he been alone, would have failed him. He 
thought but of her sufferings ; for, though from her lips they 
had never found a voice, he knew what she endured. He 
told her there were some of their unhappy countrymen, who, 
rather than lose the honourable situations they enjoyed, the 
riches they possessed, had made a public profession of Chris- 
tianity, and received baptism at the very moment they made 
a solemn vow, in secret, to act up to the tenets of their fathers’ 
faith. 

“ Alas ! are there indeed such amongst us, thus doubly per- 
jured ?” was the sole observation of J osephine, looking up sor 
rowfully in his face. 


140 


THE EDICT. 


“ They do not think it perjury, my beloved : they say the 
Ood of Israel will pardon the public falsehood, in considera- 
tion of their secret allegiance to Himself” 

“ But thou, Imri. canst thou approve this course of acting? 
Couldst thou rest in such fatal security?” 

“ Were I alone, my Josephine, with none to love or care 
for, death itself were preferable ; but oh, when I look on thee^ 
and remember thy deep love for this fair soil — when I think 
on Areli, on all that he must suffer — the misery we must all 
endure — I could wish my mind would reconcile itself to act as 
dthers do ; that to serve my God in secret, and those of wood 
and stone in public, were no perjury.” 

“ Oh, do not say so, Imri ; think not of me, my beloved : 
I love not my home better than my God ; I would not accept 
peace and prosperity at such a price ! Had I been alone, 
death, even by the sword of slaughter, would have been wel- 
come, would have found me here, for I could not have gone 
forth. But now I am thine, Imri, thine ; and whither thou 
goest I will go ; and thou shalt make me another home than 
this, my husband, where we may worship our God in peace 
and joy, and there shall be blessing for us yet.” 

She had spoken with a smile so inexpressibly affecting in 
its plaintive sweetness, that her husband could only press her 
to his heart in silence, and inwardly pray it might be as she 
said. Of Areli she had not spoken, and he guessed too truly 
wherefore. From the hour of their banishment, a change had 
come over the spirit of the boy ; his smiles still greeted those 
he loved, but he was longer away than was his wont, and Imri, 
following him at a distance, could see him ever lingering amid 
his favourite haunts ; and when far removed, as he believed, 
from the sight of man, he would fling himself on the grass, and 
weep, till sometimes, from very exhaustion, sleep would steal 
over him, and then, starting up, he would make hasty sketches 
of some much-loved scenes, to prove to his sister how well he 
had been employed. 

These painful proofs of the poor boy’s sorrow Imri could 
conceal, but not the decay of bodily strength ; or deny, when 
Josephine appealed to him, that his frame became yet more 
shadowy in its beautiful proportions, — that the rose which 
had spread itself on either cheek, -the unwonted lustre of the 
eye, the increased transparency of his complexion, told ol 
the loveliness of another world : yet for him how might they 
grieye ? 


THE EDICT. 


141 


It happened that one of the Spanish soldiers, a father him* 
self, and less violently prejudiced than his fellows, had taken 
a fancy to the beautiful and afflicted boy always wandering 
about alone ; and he thought it would be doing a kind action 
to prevent his accompanying the fugitives, by adopting him as 
his ow"n ; believing it would be easy to rear him to the Catho- 
lic church, as one so young, and. moreover, deaf and dumb, 
could have imbibed little of the Jewish misbelief Kindly and 
lenderly he sought and won the child’s affection, and fcund 
inean.« to converse with him intelligibly. 

Incapable of thinking evil, Areli doubted not his compan- 
ion’s kindness, and though aware he was a Spaniard and a 
Catholic, artlessly betrayed the deep suffering his banishment 
engendered. Fadrique worked on this; he told him he should 
not leave them, that he would bring his family and live there, 
and Areli should be loved by all. He worked on the boy’s 
fancy till he felt he had gained his point, then erecting a small 
crucifix, bade him kneel and worship. 

The film passed from the eyes of the child, indignation 
flashed from every feature, and springing up, he tore the 
cross to the earth, and trampled it into the dust. Ten or 
twelve soldiers, who had been carelessly watching Fadrique’s 
proceedings from a distance, enraged beyond measure at this 
insult from a puny boy, darted towards him, flung him vio- 
lently to the earth, and pointed their weapons at his throat. 
At that instant Josephine stood before them ; for she too 
had watched, with the anxious eye of affection, the designs of 
Fadrique. 

“ Are ye men !” she exclaimed, and the rude soldiers 
shrunk abashed from her glance, “ that thus ye w'ould tnke 
the blood of an innocent, helpless child — one whose very afflic- 
tion should appeal to mercy, denied as it may be to others ? 
On yourselves ye called this insult to your faith, xlow else 
could he tell ye he refused your offers? You bade him ac- 
knowledge that which his soul abhors ; and was it strange his 
hand should prove that which he hath no voice to speak? And 
for this would ye take his life ? Oh, shame, shame on your 
coward hearts !” 

Sullenly the men withdrew, at once awed by her mien, and 
remembering that in assaulting any Hebrew before the time 
specified in the edict was over, they were liable to military su- 
verity. Fadrique lingered. 

“ This was not my seeking,” he said respectfully ; “ I 


i42 


THE EDICT. 


sought but the happiness of that poor child : I would save 
him from the doom of suffering chosen by the elders of his 
race. Leave him with me, and I pledge my sacred word his 
life shall be a happy one ” 

“ I thank thee for thine offer, soldier,” replied Josephine, 
mildly, “but my brother has chosen his own fate; I have 
used neither entreaties nor commands.” 

The boy, who had betrayed no fear even when the deadl}’ 
weapons were at his throat, now took the hand of Fadrique, 
and by a few expressive signs craved pardon for the insult he 
had been led to commit, and firmly and expressively refused 
his every offer. 

“ Thou hast yet to learn the deep love borne to our faith 
by her persecuted children, my good friend,” said Josephine, 
perceiving the man’s surprise was mingled with some softer 
feeling; “that even the youngest Jewish child will prefer 
slavery, exile, or death, to forswearing his father’s God. May 
the God of Israel bless thee for the kindness thou hast shown 
this poor afflicted boy, but seek him not again.” 

She drew him closer to her, and they disappeared together. 
A tear rose to the Spaniard’s eye, but he hastily brushed it 
away, and then telling his rosary, as if it were sin thus to care 
for an unbeliever, rejoined his comrades. 

The family of Imri Benalmar was the last to quit the vale. 
Each was mounted on a mule, and there were two led or 
Sumpter mules, on which was strapped as much clothing as 
they could conveniently stow away, and provisions which 
they hoped would last them till they reached the vessel, 
knowing well they could procure no more. Some few val- 
uables Imri contrived to secrete but his fortune, principally 
consisting in land and its produce, was of necessity irretriev- 
ably ruined. 

Josef Asher accompanied them ; he had been active in 
consoling, encouraging, and assisting his weaker brethren. 
Not a family departed without receiving some token of his 
sympathy and love ; and young and old crowded round him, 
ere they went, imploring his blessing and his prayers. 

It was, however, observed that of his own departure, his 
own plans, Asher never spoke. That he would accompany 
his children all believed, and so did Josephine herself; but all 
were mistaken. 

On the evening of their first day’s journey, as they halted 
for rest and refreshment, some unusual emotion was ob* 


THE EDICT. 


143 


ecrvable in the mien and features of the old man. He asked 
them to join him in prajer, and as he concluded, he spread his 
hands upon their heads, and blessed each by name empha- 
tically, unfalteringly, as in his days of youth. 

“ And now,” he said, as they arose, “ farewell, my beloved 
children. The God of Israel go with ye, and lead ye, even as 
our ancestors of old, with the daily cloud and nightly pillar. I 
go no further with ye.” 

“No further! what means our father?” exclaimed Imri 
and Josephine together. 

“ That I am too old to go forth to another land, my chil- 
dren. The God of Judah demands not this from his old and 
weary servant. Fourscore and fifteen years I have served 
Him in the dwelling-place of mine own people, and there shall 
His Angel find me. My sand is well-nigh run out, my 
strength must fail ere I reach the shore. Wherefore, then, 
should I go forth, and by my infirmities bring down danger' 
and suffering on my children ? Oppose me not, beloved ones ; 
refuse not your aged father the blessing of dying beside his 
own hearth.” 

“ Alone, untended, and perchance by the sword of 
slaughter? Oh, my father, ask us not this I” exclaimed Jose- 
phine, with passionate agony throwing herself at his feet, and 
clinging to his knees. 

“ My child, the Spirit of my God will tend me ; I shall 
not be alone, for His ministering angels will hover round me 
ere He takes me to Himself ; and if it be by the sword of 
slaughter, ’twill be perchance an easier passage for this sor- 
rowing soul than the lingering death of age.” 

“ Then let me return and die with thee !” 

“ Not so, my child I thy life has barely passed its spring ; 
’twould be sin thus to sport with death. The God who calls 
me to death, bids thee go forth to serve Him — to proclaim 
His great name in other lands. Thy husband, thy poor Areli, 
both call on thee to live for them; thou wouldst not turn from 
the path of duty, my beloved child, dark and dreary as it may 
seem. See, thine Imri weeps ; and thou, who shouldst cheer, 
hast caused these unmanly tears.” 

She turned towards her husband, and with a painful sob, 
sunk into his extended arms. Asher gave one long lingering 
look of love, folded the weeping Areli to his bosom, and ere 
Imri could sufficiently recover his emotion to speak, the old 
man was gone. 


144 


THE EDICT. 


The death he sought was speedily obtained. The Spanish 
officers and several of the men had quitted Eshcol, leaving 
only the lowest rank of soldiery to keep watch lest any of the 
fugitives should returnyand, taking advantage of the secluded 
situation of the vale, set the edict at defiance. Effectually 
to prevent this, the men were commanded to turn the little 
temple to a place of worship for true believers. Workmen, 
with images, shrines, and pictures, were sent to assist them, 
and a pension promised to every Catholic family who would 
reside there, thus to exterminate utterly all trace of heresy 
and its abominations. 

The men thus employed, ignorant and bigoted, exulted in 
the task assigned them, and only lamented that no human 
blood had been shed to render their holocausts to their patron 
saints more efficacious still. The return of Asher excited 
some surprise, but believing he would depart ere the allotted 
period had expired, they took little heed of his movements. 
The work continued, crosses were affixed to every side, images 
decked the interior, and all promised fair completion, when 
one night a wild cry of fire resounded, and hurrying to the 
spot, they beheld their work in flames. It was an awful pic- 
ture. The night was pitchy dark, but far and near the thick 
woods and blackened heavens suddenly blazed up with lurid 
hue. There were dusky forms hurrying to and fro ; oaths 
and execrations mingled with the stormy gusts which fanned 
the flames into greater fury , and, amidst them all, calmly 
looking on the work his hand had wrought, there stood an 
aged man, whose figure, in that glow of light, appeared gigan- 
tically proportioned, his silvery hair streamed back from his 
broad unwrinkled brow, and stern, unalterable resolution was 
impressed upon his features. He was seen, recognised, and 
with a yelling shout the murderers darted on their prey. 

“ Come on !” he cried, waving his arms triumphantly 
abov'^ his head. “ Come on, and wreak your vengeance on 
these aged limbs ; ’tis I have done this. Better flames should 
hurl it to the dust, than the temple of God be profaned by 
the abominations He abhors. Come on, I glory in the deed !” 

He spoke, and fell pierced with a hundred wounds. A 
smile of peculiar beauty lighted up his features. “ Blessed 
be the God of Israel, the sole One, the Holy One !” he cried, 
and his spirit fled, rejoicing, to the God he served. 

Slowly and painfully did Imri’s little family pursue their 
W'\y. They chose the most secluded paths, but even there 


THE EDICT. 


L45 


traces of misery and death awaited them, and they shranls 
from suffering they could not' alleviate. There might be seen 
a group dragging along their failing limbs, their provisions 
exhausted, and the pangs of hunger swallowing up all other 
thoughts. There lay the blackening bodies of those who had 
sunk and died, scarcely missed, and often envied by the sur- 
vivors. Often did the sound of their footsteps scare away 
large flocks of carrion birds, who, screaming and flapping 
their heavy wings, left to the travellers the loathsome sight of 
their half-devoured prey. And they saw, too, the fearful 
fascinated gaze of those in whom life was not utterly extinct, 
as they watched the progress of these horrible birds, dread- 
ing lest they should dart upon them ere death had rendered 
them insensible. Josephine looked on these things, and then 
on her young brother, whose strength each day too e/idently 
declined. 

Areli’s too sensitive spirit shrank in shuddering anguish 
from every fresh scene of human suffering. He, whose young 
life had been so full of peace and bliss, knowing but love and 
good-will passing from man to man, how might he sustain the 
change ? He had no voice to speak those feelings, no time to 
give them vent in the sweet language of poesie, which, in 
happier hours, had been the tablet of his soul. As the invi- 
sible worm at the root of a blooming flowCr. secretly destroy- 
ing its sap, its nourishment, and the flower falls ere one of its 
leaves hath lost its beauty, so it was with the orphan boy. 
Each day was Imri compelled to shorten more and more their 
journey, for often would Areli drop fainting from his mule, 
though the cheek retained its exquisite bloom, his eye its 
lustre. Imri became fearfully anxious ; from the comparative 
vicinity of the sea-shore, he had believed their provisions 
would be more than sufficient to last them on their way, but 
from these unlooked-for delays, the horrors of famine, thirst 
that most horrible death, stood darkly before him. Joso« 
phine, his own, his loved, would she encounter horrors such as 
they had witnessed? Imri shuddered. 

One evening. Areli lay calmly on the soft bed of moss and 
heath his sister’s love had framed ; his hand clasped hers ; 
his eyes seemed to speak the unutterable love and gratitude 
ho felt. They were in the wildest part of a thick forest in the 
Sierra Nevada ; and Imri, unable to look on the sufferings d 
his beloved ones, had wandered forth alone. Distant sounds 
of the chase fell at intervals on the ears of Josephine ; but they 


146 


THE EDICT. 


were far away, and her soul was too enwrapt to heed them, 
Suddenly, however, her attention was effectually roused by 
the loud crashing of the bushes near them, accompanied by 
low yet angry growls. Areli marked the sudden change in 
her features, his eye too had caught an object by her still un- 
seen. He sprang up with that strength which energy of feeling 
so often gives when bodily force has gone, and grasped tightly 
the hunting spear he held ; scarcely had he done so, when a 
huge boar sprung through the thicket, his flanks streaming 
with blood, his tusks upraised, his mouth gaping, covered 
with foam, and uttering growls, denoting pain and fury yet 
more clearly than his appearance. He stood for a second 
motionless, then, as if startled by the agonized scream of terror 
bursting from Josephine, he sprung upon the daring boy. 
Undauntedly Areli met his approach. His spear, aimed by 
an eye that never failed, pierced him for a second to the earth, 
but, alas ! the strength of the boy was not equal to his skill. 
The boar, yet more enraged, tore the weapon from the ground 
which it had not pierced above an inch. Once more he fell, 
struck down by a huge stick, which Areli, with the speed of 
lightning, had snatched up. Again he rose, and fastened on 
the child. A blow from behind forced him to relax his stifling 
hold ; furious, he turned on the slight girl who had dared attack 
him, and Josephine herself would have shared her brother’s 
fate, when the spear of Imri whizzed through the air, true to 
its mark, and the huge animal, with a cry of pain and fury, 
rolled lifeless on the ground. 

The voice of his beloved had startled Imri from his mourn- 
ful trance ; the roar which followed explained its source, and 
winged by terror, he arrived in time. Josephine was saved 
indeed, but no word of thankfulness broke from that heart, 
which, in grateful devotion, had never been dumb before. She 
knelt beside the seemingly lifeless body of her Areli, scarcely 
conscious of the presence of her husband ; his hands, his neck, 
his brow, were deluged in blood ; she bathed him plentifully 
with cold water. Could she remember at such a moment that 
no springs were near, and that, if overwhelmed with thirst, 
the pure element would be denied them? Oh, no, no ; she 
saw only the helpless sufferer, to whom her spirit clung with 
a love that, in their affliction, had with each hour grown 
stronger. 

But death was still a brief while deferred, though so fear* 
fully had Areli been injured, they could not move him thence 


THE EDICT. 


147 


His wounds -were numerous and painful, and strength to sup 
port himself even in a sitting position, never again returned. 
Yet never was that sweet face sad ; his smiles, his signs were 
ever to implore his sister not to weep for him — to take com- 
fort and be happ}^ in another land ; that the blissfulness of 
heaven was already on his soul — that if it might be, he would 
pray for her before his God, and hover like a guardian spirit 
over her weary wanderings, till he led her to a joyous home. 
For him, indeed, Josephine might not grieve, but for Imri she 
felt the deepest anxiety. The horrors to which this unlooked- 
for delay exposed him had startled her into consciousness, 
and on her knees she besought him to seek .his own safety ; 
she would not weakly shrink, but when all was over she would 
follow him, and, in all probability, they would meet again in 
another land ; not to risk his precious life and strength by 
lingering with her beside the dying boy. She pleaded with 
all a woman’s unselfish love, but, need we say, in vain ? — that 
Imri’s sole answer was to lift his right hand to heaven and 
swear, by all they both held most sacred, never to leave her 
— they would meet their fate together ? Days passed ; their 
small portion of food and water, economised as it was, dwindled 
more and more away, and so did the strength of Areli. It 
was a night of unclouded beauty ; millions and millions of 
stars spangled the deep blue heavens ; the moon in her full 
glory walked forth to silver many a dark tree, and dart her 
most refulgent rays on that little group of human suffering. 
Yet all was not suffering; the purest happiness beamed on 
the features of the dying, and an unconscious calm pervaded 
the weary spirit of these lonely watchers. Nature was so 
still, they spoke almost in whispers, as feating to disturb her. 

A sudden change spread on the features 'of the dying boy. 
Imri started ; “ Josephine, the chains are rent — he hears 
us !” he cried ; and Josephine, raising him in her arms, al- 
most involuntarily spoke in uttered words, “ Areli, my own, 
my beautiful !” 

He HEARD ; the film wai removed one brief moment from 
his ear ; her voice, sweet as thrilling music, fell upon his soul ; 
his lips moved, and one articulate word then came, unearthly 
in its sweetness, “ Josephine !” He raised his clasped hands 
to heaven, and sunk back upon her bosom; his soul had hover- 
ed on the earth one moment free, then fied for ever. 

Imri and Josephine joined in prayer beside the loved. 
They neither mourned nor wept, and calmly Josephine wrapped 


148 


THE El. CT. 


the fadeless flower in the last garments of mortality, while 
Imri formed his resting-place. They laid him in that humble 
grave, strewed flowers and moss upon it, prayed that their God 
would in mercy guard his body from the ravening beasts, then 
turned from that hallowed spot, and silently pursued their 
journey. 

It wanted but two days to the completion of the allotted 
period, when, faint, weak, and well-nigh exhausted, Imri and 
his Josephine stood on the sea-shore, and there horrible in- 
deed was the sight that presented itself Hundreds of the 
wretched fugitives lay famishing on the scorching sands. 
Many who had dragged on their failing limbs through all the 
horrors of famine, of thirst, of miseries in a thousand shapes, 
which the very pen shrinks from delineating, arrived there but 
to die ; for there were but few vessels to bear them to other 
lauds, and these often sailed with half their number, either 
because the bribes they demanded were refused (for the 
wretched victims had nought to give), or that their captains 
swore so many heretics would sink their ships, and they would 
take no more. Then it was that, with a crucifix in one hand, 
and bread and wine in the other,, the Catholic priests advanced 
to the half-senseless suflferers, and offered the one, if they ac- 
knowledged the other. Was it marvel that at such a moment 
there were some who yielded? Oh, there is a glory and a 
triumph in the martyr’s death ! Men look with admiring awe 
on those who smile when at the stake ; but the faith that in- 
spired courage and firmness and constancy ’mid suffering 
which we have but faintly outlined — ’mid lingering torments 
’neath which the hearty yet more than the frame, was crushed 
— that FAITH is regarded with scorn as a blinded, wilful mis- 
belief Could man endow his own spirit with this devoted- 
ness ? Pride might lead him to the stake, but not to bear 
what Israel had borne, aye, and will bear till the wrath of his 
God is turned aside. No ; the same God who strengthened 
Abraham to offer up his son, enables His wretched people to 
give up all for Him. Would He do this, had they denied and 
mocked Him? 

Imri saw the cold shuddering creeping over the blighted 
form of his beloved, and he led her to the sheltering rock, 
whose projecting cliffs partly concealed the wretched objects 
on the beach. There was one vessel on the broad ocean, and 
in her he determined at once to secure a passage, if to do so 
cost the forfeit of the few valuables he had been enabled to 


THE EDICT. 


149 


secrete. He lingered awhile by the side of his Josephine, for 
he saw, with anguish, the noble spirit, which had so long sus- 
tained and consoled her, now for the first time appear to droop. 
The sudden appearance of a Spanish officer, and his apparent 
advance towards them, arrested him as he was .about to depart. 
He was attired richly, his whole bearing seeming to denote a 
person of some rank and consequence. Josephine’s gaze became 
almost unconsciously riveted upon him. He came nearer, 
nearer still ; they could trace his features, on which sorrow or 
care had fixed its stamp. A mtment he renmved the plumed 
cap from his head, and passed his hand across his brow. An 
exclamation of recognition escaped the dps of Imri. and in an- 
other moment Josephine had bounded forward and was kneel- 
ing at his feet. “ My father ! my father !” she sobbed forth. 
“ 0 God, I thank Thee fpr this unlooked-for mercy. I have 
seen him once again.” 

“ Thou — art thou my child, my Josephine, whom I left in 
such bright, blooming beauty — whom I have sought in such 
trembling anguish from the moment 1 might reach these shores ? 
Child of my Rachel, art thou, canst thou be ? Oh, yes, yes, 
yes ! ’Twas thus she looked when I departed. Could I hope 
to see thee as I left thee, when blight and misery fell upon 
thy native vale, as on all the dwellings of thy wretched race? 
And I — 0 God ! — my child, my child, curse me, hate me — I 
hurled down destruction on thy house.” 

But even as he spoke in those wild accents of ungovern- 
able passion, but too familiar to the ears that heard, he had 
raised and strained her convulsively to his breast, covering 
her cheek and lips with kisses, till his burning tears of 
agonized remorse mingled with those of softer feelings on the 
cheeks of Josephine. But not long might she indulge in the 
blessed luxury of tears ; shuddering, she repeated his last 
words gazing up in his face with eyes of horrified inquiry. 

“ Yes, I, even I, my child. I was not sufficiently wretched 
— the bitter cup of remorse was not yet full. The edict was 
proclaimed. On all sides there was but wretchedness and 
unutterable misery, beyond all this woe-huilt world hath 
known. Then came a wild yearning to look again upon my 
native vale — to know if in truth its concealed and sheltered 
cives had escaped uninjured by the wide-spreading, devas- 
tating scourge that edict brought — to look on thee, my child, 
tf I might without endangering that precious life — to know 
ihe fate of my unborn babe. I dared not dream my wife yet 


150 


THE EDICT. 


lived. Josephine, I looked upon her tomb, and by its sid« 
beheld my own, my beautiful, my unknown boy. O G-od ! 
0 God ! my crime was visited upon his innocent head ; and 
where — oh, where is he? Why may I not look upon his 
gweet face again ?” 

He ceased, choked by overwhelming emotion, and some 
minutes passed ere either of his agitated listeners could 
summon sufficient composure to reply. But the anguish of 
Gastello seemed incapable of increase. For several minutes, 
indeed, he was silent ; tne convulsive workings of his 
features denoting how deeply i-hat simple nairative had sunk. 
When he spoke, it was briefly and hurriedly to relate how he 
had lingered in the vicinity of Eshcol, till at length discovered 
by a party of Spaniards sent to seek him, with a message from 
the sovereigns. His wanderings had been tracked, and that 
which he had most desired to avert he had been the means of 
accomplishing — the discovery of the vale. And then con- 
vulsively clasping the hands of Josephine and Imri in his 
own, he besought them to remove in part the load of miser}^ 
from his heart — to say they would not leave him more. 

“ Goest thou then forth, my father? Hast thou indeed 
tarried for us, that we may seek a home together?” The 
father’s eyes shrunk beneath those mild inquiring eyes. 

“ My child, I go not forth,” he said at length, and his voice 
trembled. Josephine gently withdrew herself from his arms, 
and laid her hand on her husband’s. 

“ My child! my noble child,” he said, in smothered accents, 
“ I am not perjured. I am still a son of Israel, though to the 
world a Catholic. Oh, do not turn from me. Come with me 
to my home, and thou shalt see how the exiled and the perse- 
cuted can defy the power of their destroyers. Life, with every 
luxury, shall be thy portion ; thine Imri shall have every 
dream of ambition and joy fulfilled. The children of Sigis 
mund Gastello will be courted, cherished, and loved. ’Tis but 
to kneel in public before the cross of the Nazarene — in private, 
we are sons of Israel still.” 

“ Father, urge me not ; it cannot be,” was her calm and 
firm reply. 

“ Hast thought on all that must befall thee in other, per- 
chance equally hostile, lands ? My child, thou knowest not 
all thou mayest have to endure.” 

“ It is welcome,” she answered ; “ the more rugged the path 
to heaven, the more blessed will seem my final rest ” 


THE EDICT. 


151 


And tbon wilt leave me to all the agonies of remorse ; to 
struggle on with the blackening thought, that not only have 1 
murdered those I love best on earth — my wife, my boy — but 
sent ye forth to poverty, privation and misery. Josephine, 
Josephine, have merey !” and Ihe father threw himself before 
his child, grovelling in the sand, and clasping his hands in 
the wild energy of supplication. 

“ Father, father, drive me not mad ! I cannot, cannot bear 
this. Imri, my husband, if thou wouldst save my heart from 
treachery, raise him — in mercy raise him. I cannot answer 
with him there ! God, God of Israel ! leave me not now. My 
brain is reelmg — save me from myself” 

She staggered back, and terrified at those accents of almost 
madness, her father sprang from the ground, he caught her 
again in his arms, while Imri, kneeling beside her, chafed her 
cold hands in his, imploring her to speak, to look on him 
again. 

“ My child, my child, wake, wake ! I will not grieve thee 
thus again. But oh, thy husband’s look would pray thee not 
to go forth ! The God of love, of pity, demands not this self- 
sacrifice. Imri, one word from thee would be sufficient. Look 
on her. Think to what thou bearest her, when peace, com- 
fort, and luxuries await ye, with but one word. Speak, speak ! 
Thou canst not, wilt not take her hence.” 

Though well-nigh senseless, well-nigh so exhausted alike 
in body and mind that further exertion seemed impossible, 
J osephine roused herself from that trance of faintness to gaze 
wildly and fearfully on the face of her husband. It was ter- 
ribly agitated. She threw herself on his neck, and gasped 
forth, “ Canst thou bid me do this thing, my husband?” He 
struggled to answer, but there came no word. Strength, the 
mighty strength of virtue, returned to that sinking frame. 
She stood erect, and spoke without one quivering accent or 
one failing word. 

“ Imri, my husband ! by the love thou bearest me, by all 
we both hold sacred, by that great and ineffable name we are 
forbidden to pronounce, I charge thee answer me truly. Didst 
thou stand alone — were Josephine no more — how wouldst thou 
decide ? The eye of God is upon thee — deceive me not !” 

He turned from that searching glance, his strong frame 
shook with emotion ; his voice was scarcely audible, yet these 
words came — 


152 


THE EDICT. 


“ I NEVER could deuy my God ! Exile and death were 
welcome — but for thee !” 

“ Eiioufyh, my husband !” she exclaimed, and throwing her 
arms around him, she turned again to her father, a glow of 
holy triumph tinging her pallid cheek. “And wouldst tempt 
him to perjury for my sake? Oh, no, no! father, beloved, 
revered, from the first hour I could lisp thy name, oh, pardon 
me this first disobedience to thy will I Did I linger, how 
might I save thee from remorse ; when each day, each hour, 
thou wouldst see me fade beneath the whelming weight of 
perjury and falsity? No, no I Bless me, oh bless me, ere I 
go. and the prayers of thy child shall rise each liour for 
thee !” 

Again she knelt before him, and Gastello, inexpressibly 
affected, felt he dared urge no more. How might he agonize 
that heart; when in neither word, nor hint, ncr sign did she 
utter repioach on him ? Again and again he reiterated bless- 
ings on her sainted head ; and when he could release her from 
his embrace, it was to secure their speedy passage in the 
vessel, which his command had detained in her moorings ; 
though the hope that he should once more look upon his child 
had well-nigh faded ere she came. 

The exiles stood upon the deck. A hundred other of the 
miserable fugitives had found a refuge in this same vessel, 
whose captain, somewhat more humane than many of his 
fellows, and richly bribed by Gastello, set food before the fam- 
ishing wanderers directly they had weighed anchor. But 
even the cravings of nature were lost in the one feeling, that 
they gazed for the last time on the land they loved. There 
were dark thunder-clouds sweeping over the sky, mingled with 
others of brilliant colouring, that proclaimed the hour of sun- 
set. The ocean-horizon seemed buried in murky gloom ; but 
the shores of Spain stood forth bathed in a glow of warm red 
light, as if to bid the unhappy wanderers farewell in unrivalled 
brilliance. For awhile there was silence on the vessel, so deep, 
so unbroken, that the flapping of the sails against the masts 
was alone distingui.shable. It was then a wild and wailing 
strain burst simultaneously from the fugitives ; the young and 
the old, the strong man and exhausted female, joined almost 
unconsciously. In the language of Jerusalem they chanted 
forth their wild farewell, which may thus be rendered into 
English verse. 


THE EDICT. 


15.3 


Farewell ! farewell 1 we wander forth, 

Doom’d by th’ Eternal’s awful wrath ; 

With nought to bless our lonely path, 

Across the stormy wave. 

Cast forth as wanderers on the earth ; 

Torn trom the land that hailed our birth, 

From childhood’s cot, from manhood’s hearth. 

From temple and from grave. 

Farewell 1 farewell ! thou beauteous sod, 

Which Israel has for ages trod ; 

We leave thee to th’ oppressors’ rod. 

Weeping the exiles’ doom. 

We go! no more thy turf we press; 

Fo more thy fruits and vineyanls bless; 

No land to love — no home possess. 

Save earth’s cold breast — the tomb. 

\ 

Where we have roamed the strangers roam ; 

The stranger claims each cherished home; 

And we must ride on ocean’s foam, 

Accui-sed and alone. 

False gods pollute our holy fane; 

False hearts its sacrt’d precincts stain ; 

False tongues our fathers’ God profane; 

But WE are still His own. 

Farewell I farewell ! o’er land and sea, 

Wliere’er we roam, our soul shall be. 

Laud we have loved so long, with thee. 

Though sad and lone we dwell. 

Thou land, where happy childhood played ; 

Where youth in love’s sweet fancies strayed; 

Where long our fathers’ bones have laid; 

Our own bright land — farewell! 

Wilder and louder thrilled the strain until the last verso, 
when mournfully the voices for a few seconds swelled, and 
then gradually died away to silence, broken only by sobs and 
tears. Irnri and Josephine alone sat apart; they had not 
joined the melody, but their souls in silence echoed back its 
mournful wailing. Josephine half sat, half reclined on a pile 
of cushions, where she might command the last view of Spain. 
Imri leaned against a mast, close beside her ; but few words 
passed between them, for each felt the effort to speak was 
made only for the other, and they ceased to war thus with 
nature. 

A sudden gloom darkened the heavens. The glow’ passed 
from the beautiful shores. A heavy fall of dense clouds hung 


154 


THE EDICT. 


over them, and concealed them from the eyes which in that 
direction lingered still. The last gleam of light disclosed to 
Imri his Josephine in the attitude of calm and happy slum* 
her. Her head reclined upon her arm, and the long dark 
curls had fallen over her face and neck. He rejoiced ; for he 
thought nature had at length found the repose she so much 
needed. His own eyelids felt heavy, and his limbs much 
exhausted ; but he remained watching, untired, the sleep of 
his beloved. Heavy gusts now at intervals swept along the 
ocean. The blackened waves rolled higher and higher at the 
call, now crested by the snowy foam. The vessel rocked and 
heaved, and speedily driven from her course, mocked every 
effort to guide her southward, one moment riding proudly on 
the topmost wave, the next sinking in a deep valley, as about 
to be whelmed by huge mountains of roaring water. Distant 
thunder, mingled with the moaning gusts, coming nearer and 
nearer, till it burst above their heads, louder and longer than 
the discharge of a hundred cannons. The forked lightning 
streamed through the ebon sky, illumining all around for 
above a minute by that blue and vivid glare, and then vanish- 
ing in darkness yet more terrible. 

The elements were at war around them, cries of human 
terror joined with the roar of the ocean, the rolling thunder, 
the groaning blasts ; but there was no movement in the form 
of Josephine. Could she still sleep? Could exhaustion ren- 
der her insensible to sounds like these ? Imri knelt beside 
her and called her by name : — “ J osephine, my beloved ! Oh, 
waken !” 

There was no answer. At that moment a bright flash 
darted through the gloom, and sea and sky appeared on fire. 
A strange and crashing sound succeeded, followed by a cry of 
agony, which, bursting from a hundred throats, echoed far and 
near, drowning even the noise of the raging storm, for it was 
the deep tone of human terror and despair. The topmast 
fell, shivered by the lightning, in the very centre of the deck ; 
flames burst forth where it fell, and on went the devoted vessel 
a blazing pile on the booming waters. 

Imri Benalmar moved not from his knee — he heard not 
the cries of suffering echoing round — he know not the cause of 
that livid glare, which had so suddenly illumined every object 
— he knew nothing, felt nothing, save that he gazed on the 
face of the dead. 


THE EDICT. 


155 


A fearful sound, seeming distinct from the warring ele- 
ments, called forth many of the hardy inhabitants of Malaga 
from their homes. They hurried to the beach, and appalled 
and startled, beheld one part of the horizon completely bathed 
in living fire ; sea and sky united by a sheet of flame. Pre 
sently it appeared to divide, and borne onwards by the winds 
and waves, a ball of fire fioated on the water. It came nearer 
— and horror and sympathy usurped the place of superstition, 
as a burning vessel rose and fell with every heaving wave. 
The storm was abated though the sea yet raged, and many a 
hardy fisherman pushed out his boat in the pious hope of 
saving some of the unfortunate crew. Their efforts were in 
vain; ere half the distance was accomplished, there came a 
hissing sound ; the flames for one brief moment blazed with 
appalling brilliance — then sunk, and there was a void on the 
wide waste of waters. 


A TALE OF 1755. 

“ Dark lowei’s onr fate, 

And terrible the storm that gathers o’er us; 

But nothing, till that latest agony 

Which severs thee from nature, shall unloose 

This fixed and sacred hold. In thy dark prise n house; 

In the terrific face of armed law; 

Yea! on the scaffold, if it needs must be, 

I never will forsake thee.” — Joanna Baillik, 


About the middle of the eighteenth century, the little town of 
Montes, situated some forty or fifty miles from Lisbon, was 
thrown into most unusual excitement by the magnificence 
attending the nuptials of Alvar Rodriguez and Almah Diaz, 
an excitement which the extraordinary beauty of the bride, 
who, though the betrothed of Alvar from her childhood, had 
never been seen in Montes before, of course not a little in- 
creased. The little church of Montes looked gay and glittering, 
for the large sums lavished by Alvar on the officiating priests, 
and in presents to their patron saints, had occasioned every 
picture, shrine, and image to blaze in uncovered gold and 
jewels, and the altar to be fed with the richest incense, and 
lighted with tapers of the finest wax, to do him honour. 

The church was full ; for, although the bridal party did 
not exceed twenty, the village appeared to have emptied 
itself there ; Alvar’s munificence to all classes, on all occa- 
sions, having rendered him the universal idol, and caused the 
fame of that day’s rejoicing to extend many miles around. 

There was nothing remarkable in the behaviour of either 
bride or bridegreom, except that both were decidedly more 
calm than such occasions usually warrant. Nay, in the fine, 
manly countenance of Alvar ever and anon an expression 
seemed to fiit, that in any but so true a son of the church 
would have been accounted scorn. In such a one, of course, 
it was neither seen nor regarded, except by his bride ; for at 


THE ESCAPE. 


157 


such times her eyes met his with an earnest and entreating 
glance, that the peculiar look was changed into a quiet, tender 
seriousness, which reassured her. 

From the church they adjourned to the lordly mansion of 
Kodriguez, which, in the midst of its flowering orange and ci- 
tron trees, stood about two miles from the town. 

The remainder of the day passed in festivity. The banquet, 
and dance, and song, both within and around the house, diver- 
sified the scene and increased hilarity in all. By sunset, all 
but the immediate friends and relatives of the newly wedded 
had departed. Some splendid and novel fireworks from the 
heights having attracted universal attention, Alvar, with his 
usual indulgence, gave his servants and retainers permission to 
join the festive crowds ; liberty, to all who wished it, was given 
for the next two hours. 

In a very brief interval the house was cleared, with the 
exception of a young Moor, the secretary or book-keeper of 
Alvar, and four or five middle-aged domestics of both sexes. 

Gradually, and it appeared undesignedly, the bride and 
her female companions were left alone, and for the first time 
the beautiful face of Almah was shadowed by emotion. 

“ Shall I, oh, shall I indeed be his she said, half aloud. 
“ There are moments when our dread secret is so terrible ; it 
seems to forebode discovery at the very moment it would be 
most agonizing to bear.” 

“ Hush, silly one !” was the reply of an older friend ; “ dis- 
covery is not so easily or readily accomplished. The persecu- 
ted and the nameless have purchased wisdom and caution at 
the price of blood — learned to deceive, that they may triumph 
— to conceal, that they may flourish still. Almah, we are not 
to fall !” 

“ I know it, Inez. A superhuman agency upholds us ; we 
had been cast off, rooted out, plucked from the very face of 
the earth long since else. But there are times when human 
nature will shrink and tremble — when the path of deception 
and concealment allotted for us to tread seems fraught with 
danger at every turn. I know it is all folly, yet there is a 
dim foreboding, shadowing our fair horizon of joy as a hover- 
ing thunder-cloud. There has been suspicion, torture, death 
Oh, if ray Alvar — ” 

“Nay, Almah; this is childish. It is only because you 
are too happy, and happiness in its extent is ever pain. In 
good time comes your venerable guardian, to chide and silence 


(58 


THE ESCAPE. 


all such foolish fancies. How many weddings have therA 
been, and will there still he, like this? Come, smile, love, 
while I rearrange your veil.” 

Alinah obeyed, though the smile was faint, as if the soul 
yet trembled in its joy. On the entrance of Gronzalos, her 
guardian (she was an orphan and an heiress), her veil was 
thrown around her, so as completely to envelope face and 
form. Taking his arm, and followed by all her female com- 
panions, she was hastily and silently led .0 a sort of ante-room 
or cabinet, opening, by a massive door concealed with tapestry, 
from the suite of rooms appropriated to the private use of the 
merchant and his family. There Alvar and his friends await- 
ed her. A canopy, supported by four of the youngest males 
present, was held over the bride and bridegroom as they stood 
facing the east. A silver salver lay at their feet, and oppo- 
site stood an aged man, with a small, richly-bound volume in 
his hand. It was open, and displayed letters and words of 
unusual form and sound. Another of Alvar’s friends stood 
near, holding a goblet of sacred wine ; and to a third was 
given a slight and thin Venetian glass. After a brief and 
solemn pause, the old man read or rather chanted from the 
book he held, joined in parts by those around ; and then he 
tasted the sacred wine, and passed it to the bride and bride- 
groom: Almah’s veil was upraised, for her to touch the goblet 
with her lips, now quivering with emotion, and not permitted 
to fall again. And Alvar, where now was the expression of 
scorn and contempt that had been stamped on his bold brow 
and curling lip before ? Grone — lost before the powerful emo- 
tion which scarcely permitted his lifting the goblet a second 
time to his lips. Then, taking the V enetian glass, he broke it 
on the salver at his feet, and the strange rites were concluded. 

Yet no words of congratulation came. Drawn together 
in a closer knot, while Alvar folded the now almost fainting 
Almah to his bosom, and said, in the deep, low tones of in- 
tense feeling, “ Mine, mine for ever now — mine in the sight of 
our God, the God of the exile and the faithful; our fate, 
whatever it be, henceforth is one the old man lifted up his 
clasped hands, and prayed. 

“ God of the nameless and homeless,” he said, and it was 
in the same strange yet solemn-sounding language as before, 
‘‘ have mercy on these Thy servants, joined together in Thy 
Holy name, to share the lot on earth Thy will assigns them, 
with one heart and mind. Strengthen Thou them to keep tho 


THE ESCAPE, 


159 


secret of their faith and race — to teach it to their offspring 
as they received it from their fathers. Pardon Thou them 
and us the deceit we do to keep holy Thy law and Thine in- 
heritance. In the land of the persecutor, the exterminator, 
be Thou their shield, and save them for Thy Holy name. 
But if discovery and its horrible consequences — imprisonment, 
torture, death — await them, strengthen Thou them for their 
endurance — to die as they would live for Thee. Father, hear 
tts ! homeless and nameless upon earth, we are Thine own !” 

“ Aye, strengthen me for him, my husband ; turn my 
woman weakness into Thy strength for him. Almighty Father,” 
was the voiceless prayer with which Almah lifted up her pale 
face from her husband’s bosom, where it had rested during the 
whole of that strange and terrible prayer ; and in the calm- 
ness stealing on her throbbing heart, she read her answer. 

It was some few minutes ere the excited spirits of the 
devoted few then present, male or female, master or servant, 
could subside into their wonted control. But such scenes, such 
feelings were not of rare occurrence ; and ere the domestics 
of Kodriguez returned, there was nothing either in the man- 
sion or its inmates to denote that anything uncommon had 
taken place during their absence. 

The Portuguese are not fond of society at any time, so 
that Alvar and his young bride should after one week of fes- 
tivity, live in comparative retirement, elicited no surprise. 
The former attended his house of business at Montes as usual ; 
and whoever chanced to visit him at his beautiful estate, re- 
turned delighted with his entertainment and his hosts ; so 
that, far and near, the merchant Alvar became noted alike for 
his munificence and the strict orthodox Catholicism in which 
he conducted his establishment. 

And was Alvar Rodriguez indeed what he seemed ? If so, 
what were those strange mysterious rites with which in secret 
he celebrated his marriage ? For what were those many con- 
trivances in his mansion, secret receptacles even from his own 
sitting-rooms, into which all kinds of forbidden food were con- 
veyed from his very table, that his soul might not be polluted 
by disobedience ? How did it so happen that one day in every 
year Alvar gave a general holiday — leave of absence for four 
and twenty hours, under some well-arranged pretence, to all 
save those who entreated permission to remain with him'? 
And that on that day, Alvar, his wife, his Moorish secretary, 
ind all those domestics who had witnessed his marriage, spent 


160 


THE ESCAPE. 


in lioly fast and prayer — permitting no particle of food or 
drink to pass their lips from eve unto eve ; or if, by any chance, 
the holiday could not be given, their several meals to be laid 
and served, yet so contriving that, while the food looked as if 
it had been partaken of, not a portion had they touched? 
That the Saturday should be passed in seeming preparation 
fv»r the Sunday, in cessation from work of any kind, and in 
fre‘[uent prayer, was perhaps of trivial importance ; but for 
tlie previous mysteries — mysteries known to Alvar, his wife, 
and five or six of his establishment, yet never by word or sign 
betrayed; how may we account for them? There may be 
some to whom the memory of such things, as common to their 
ancestors, may be yet familiar ; but to by far the greater 
number of English readers, they are, in all probability, as in- 
comprehensible as uncommon. 

, Alvar llodriguez was a Jew. One of the many who, in 
Portugal and Spain, fulfilled the awful prophecy of their great 
lawgiver Moses, and bowed before the imaged saints and mar- 
tyrs of the Catholic, to shrine the religion of their fathers yet 
closer in their hearts and homes. From father to son the 
secret of their faith and race descended, so early and myste- 
riously taught, that little children imbibed it — not alone the 
faith, but so effectually to conceal it, as to avert and mystify 
all inquisitorial questioning, long before they knew the mean- 
ing or necessity of what they learned. 

How this was accomplished, how the religion of God was 
thus preserved in the very midst of persecution and intoler- 
ance, must ever remain a mj^stery, as, happily for Israel, such 
fearful training is no longer needed. But that it did exist, 
that Jewish children, in the very midst of monastic and con- 
vent tuition, yet adhered to the religion of their fathers, 
never by word or sign betrayed the secret with which they 
were intrusted ; and, in their turn, became husbands and 
fathers, conveying their solemn and dangerous inheritance to 
their posterity — that such things were, there are those still 
amongst the Hebrews of England to affirm and recall, claim 
ing among their own ancestry, but one generation removed, 
those who have thus concealed and thus adhered. It was tiie 
power of God, not the power of man. Human strength had 
been utterly inefficient. Torture and death would long 
before have annihilated every remnant of Israel's devoted 
race. But it might not be ; for God had spoken. And, as s 
living miracle, a lasting record of His truth, His justice, aye 


THE ESCAPE. 


161 


and mercy, Israel was preserved in the midst of daiiger, in 
the very face of death, and will be preserved for ever. 

It was no mere rejoicing ceremony, that of marriage, 
amongst the disguised and hidden Israelites of Portugal and 
Spain. They were binding themselves to preserve and pro- 
pagate a persecuted faith. They were no longer its sole re- 
po>itors. Did the strength of one waver all was at an end. 
They were united in the sweet links of love — framing for 
themselves new ties, new hopes, new blessings in a rising fam- 
ily — all of which, at one blow, might be destroyed. They 
existed in ao atmosphere of death, yet they lived and flour- 
ished. But so situated, it was not strange that human emo- 
tion, both in Alvar and his bride, should on their wedding-day, 
have gained ascendency ; and the solemn hour which made 
them one in the sight of the God they worshipped, should 
have been fraught with a terror and a shuddering, of which 
Jewish lovers in free and happy England can have no know- 
ledge. 

Alvar Rodriguez was one of those high and noble spirits, 
on whom the chain of deceit and concealment weighed heavily ; 
and there were times when it had been difficult to suppress and 
conceal his scorn of those outward observances which his appa- 
rent Catholicism compelled. When united to Almah, however, 
he had a stronger incentive than his own safety: and as time 
passed on, and he became a father, caution and circumspection, 
if possible, increased with the deep passionate feelings of ten- 
derness towards the mother and child. As the boy grew and 
flourished, the first feelings of dread, which the very love he 
excited called forth at his birth, subsided into a kind of tran- 
quil calm, which even Almah’s foreboding spirit trusted would 
last, as the happiness of others of her race. 

Though Alvar’s business was carried on both at Montes 
and at Lisbon, the bulk of both his own and his wife’s pro- 
perty was, by a strange chance, invested at Badajoz, a frontier 
town of Spain, and whence he had often intended to remove 
it, but had always been prevented. It happened that early 
in the month of June, some affairs calling him to Lisbon, he 
resolved to delay removing it no longer, smiling at his young 
wife’s half solicitation to let it remain where it was, and play- 
fully accusing her of superstition, a charge she cared not to 
deny. The night before his intended departure his young 
Moorish secretary, in other words, an Israelite of Barbary 
extraction, entered his private closet, with a countenance of 


162 


THE ESCAPE. 


entreaty and alarm, earnestly conjuring liis master tj 
give up his Lisbon expedition, and retire with his wife and 
son to Badajoz or Oporto, or some distant city, at least for a 
while. Anxiously Rodriguez inquired wherefore. 

“ You remember the Senor Leyva, your worship’s guest a 
week or two ago?” 

“ Perfectly. What of him ?” 

“ Master, I like him not. If danger befall us it will come 
through him. I watched him closely, and every hour of his 
stay shrunk from him the more. He was a stranger?” 

“ Yes ; benighted, and had lost his way. It was impossible 
to refuse him hospitality. That he stayed longer than he had 
need, I grant ; but there is no cause of alarm in that — he 
liked his quarters.” 

“ Master,” replied the Moor, earnestly, I do not believe 
his tale. He was no casual traveller. I cannot trust him.” 

“ You are not called upon to do so, man,” said Alvar, 
laughing “ What do you believe him to be, that you would 
inoculate me with your own baseless alarm ?” 

Hassan Ben Ahmed’s answer, whatever it might be, for it 
was whispered fearfully in his master’s ear, had the effect of 
sending every drop of blood from Alvar’s face to his very 
heart. But he shook off the stagnating dread. He combated 
the prejudices of his follower as unreasonable and unfounded. 
Hassan’s alarm, however, could only be soothed by the fact, 
that so suddenly to change his plans would but excite suspi- 
cion. If Levya were what he feared, his visit must already 
have been followed by the usual terrific effects. 

Alvar promised, however, to settle his affairs at Lisbon as 
speedily as he could, and return for Almah and his son, and 
convey them to some place of greater security until the ima- 
gined danger was passed. 

In spite of his assumed indifference, however, Rodrigaez 
could not bid his wife and child farewell without a pang of 
dread, which it was difficult to conceal. The step between 
life and death — security and destruction — was so small, it 
might be passed unconsciously, and then the strongesc nerve 
might shudder at the dark abyss before him. Again and 
again he turned to go, and yet again returned ; and it was 
with a feeling literally of desperation he at length tore himself 
away. 

A fearful trembling was on Almah’s heart as she gazed 
after him, but she would not listen to its voice. 


THE ESCAPE. 


163 


“ It^ is folly,” sbe said, self-upbraidingly. “ My Alvar is 
ever chiding this too doubting heart. I will not disobey him, 
by fear and foreboding in his absence. The Grod of the name- 
less is with him and me,” and she raised her eyes to the blue 
arch above her, with an expression that needed not voice to 
mark it prayer. 

About a week after Alvar’s departure, Almah was sitting 
by the cradle of her boy, watching his soft and rosy slumbers, 
with a calm sweet thankfulness that such a treasure was her 
own. The season had been unusually hot and dry, but the 
apartment in which the young mother sat opened on a pleasant 
spot, thickly shaded with orange, lemon, and almond trees, and 
decked with a hundred other richly-hued and richly-scented 
plants ; in the centre of which a fountain sent up its heavy 
showers, which fell back on the marble bed, with a splash and 
coolness peculiarly refreshing, and sparkled in the sun as glit- 
tering gems. 

A fleet yet heavy step resounded from the garden, which 
seemed suddenly and forcibly restrained into a less agitated 
movement. A shadow fell between her and the sunshine, 
and, starting, Almah looked hastily up. Hassan Ben Ahmed 
stood before her, a paleness on his swarthy cheek, and a com- 
pression on his nether lip, betraying strong emotion painfully 
restrained. 

‘‘ My husband ! Hassan. What news bring you of him ? 
Why are you alone ?” 

He laid his hand on her arm, and answered in a voice 
which so quivered that only ears eager as her own could have 
distinguished his meaning. 

“ Lady, dear, dear lady, you have a firm and faithful heart. 
Oh ! for the love of Him who calls on you to suffer, awake its 
strength and firmness. My dear, my honoured lady, sink not, 
fail not ! 0 Grod of mercy, support her now !” he added, fling- 
ing himself on his knees before her, as Almah one moment 
sprang up with a smothered shriek, and the next sank back on 
her seat rigid as marble. 

Not another word she needed. Hassan thought to have 
prepared, gradually to have told, his dread intelligence ; but 
he had said enough. Called upon to suffer, and for Him her 
Cod — her doom was revealed in those brief words. One 
minute of such agonized struggle, that her soul and body 
seemed about to part beneath it ; and the wife and mother 
roused herself to do. .Lip, cheek, and brow vied in their ashen 
8 


164 


THE ESCAPE. 


whiteness with her robe ; the blue veins rose distended as 
cords ; and the voice — had not Hassan gazed upon her, he bad 
not known it as her own. 

She commanded him to tell her briefly all, and even while 
he spoke, seemed revolving in her own mind the decision which 
not four and twenty hours after Hassan’s intelligence she put 
into execution. 

It was as Ben Ahmed had feared. The known popularity 
and rumoured riches of Alvar llodriguez had excited the 
jealousy of that secret and awful tribunal, the Inquisition, 
one of whose innumerable spies, under the feigned name of 
Leyva, had obtained entrance within Alvar’s hospitable walls. 
One unguarded word or movement, the faintest semblance 
of secrecy or caution, were all sufficient ; nay, without these, 
more than a common share of wealth or felicity was enough 
for the unconscious victims to be marked, tracked and 
seized, without preparation or suspicion of their fate. Alvar 
had chanced to mention his intended visit to Lisbon ; and the 
better to conceal the agent of his arrest, as also to make it 
more secure, they waited till his arrival there, watched their 
opportunity, and seized and conveyed him to those cells 
whence few returned in life, propagating the charge of relapsed 
Judaism as the cause of his arrest. It was a charge too com- 
mon for remark, and the power which interfered too mighty 
for resistance. The confusion of the arrest soon subsided ; 
but it lasted long enough for the faithful Hassan to escape, 
and, by dint of very rapid travelling, reached Montes not four 
hours after his master’s seizure. The day was in consequence 
before them, and he ceased not to conjure his lady to fly at 
once ; the officers of the Inquisition could scarcely be there be- 
fore nightfall. 

“ You must take advantage of it, Hassan, and all of you 
who love me. For my child, my boy,” she had clasped him 
to her bosom, and a convulsion contracted her beautiful 
features as she spoke, “ you must take care of him ; convey 
him to Holland or England. Take jewels and gold sufficient ; 
and — and make him love his parents — he may never see either 
of them more. Hassan, Hassan, swear to protect my child !” 
she added, with a burst of such sudden and passionate agony, 
it seemed as if life or reason must bend beneath it. Bewil- 
dered by her words, as terrified by her emotion, Ben Ahmed 
gently removed the trembling child from the fond arms that 
for the first time failed to support him, gave him hastily to 


THE ESCAPE. 


165 


the care of his nurse, who was also a Jewess, said a few words 
in Hebrew, detailing what had passed, beseeching her to prO' 
pare for flight, and then returned to his mistress. The eftects 
of that prostrating agony remained, but she had so far con- 
quered, as to seem outwardly calm ; and in answer to his re- 
spectful and anxious looks, besought him not to fear for her, 
nor to dissuade her from her purpose, but to aid her in its accom- 
plishment. She summoned her household around her, detail- 
ed what had befallen, and bade them seek their own safety in 
flight; and when in tears and grief they left her, and but those 
of her own faith remained, she solemnly committed her child 
to their care, and informed them of her own determination to pro- 
ceed directly to Lisbon. In vain Hassan Ben Ahmed conjured 
her to give up the idea ; it was little short of madness. How 
could she aid his master ? why not secure her own safety, that 
if indeed he should escape, the blessing of her love would be 
yet preserved him 1 

Do not fear for your master, Hassan,” was the calm re- 
ply ; ‘‘ ask not of my plans, for at this moment they seem but 
chaos, but of this be assured, we shall live or die together.” 

More she revealed not ; but when the officers of the Inqui- 
sition arrived, near nightfall, they found nothing but deserted 
walls. The magnificent furniture and splendid paintings 
which alone remained, of course were seized by the Holy 
Office, by whom Alvar’s property was also confiscated. Had 
his aiTest been deferred three months longer, all would have 
gone — swept oft’ by the same rapacious power, to whom great 
wealth was ever proof of great guilt — but as it was, the 
greater part, secured in Spain, remained untouched ; a circum- 
stance peculiarly fortunate, as Almah’s plans needed the aid of 
gold. 

We have no space to linger on the mother’s feelings, as she 
parted from her boy ; gazing on him, perhaps, for the last time. 
Vet she neither wept nor sighed. There was but one other 
feeling stronger in that gentle bosom — a wife’s devotion — and 
to that alone she might listen now. 

Great was old Gonzalos’ terror and astonishment when 
Almah, attended only by Hassan Ben Ahmed, and both at- 
tired in the Moorish costume, entered his dwelling and im- 
plored his concealment and aid. The arrest of Alvar Rodri* 
guez had, of course, thrown every secret Hebrew into the 
greatest alarm, though none dared be evinced. Gonzalos’ only 
hope and consolation was that Almah and her child had escap* 

• • 


THE ESCAie.. 


i66. 

ed ; and to see her in the very centre of danger, even to listei 
to her calmly proposed plans, seemed so like madness, that he 
used every effort to alarm her into their relinquishment. But 
this could not be; and with the darkest forebodings, the old 
man at length yielded to the stronger, more devoted spirit with 
whom he had to deal. ^ 

His mistress once safely under Gonzalos’ roof, Ben Ahmed 
departed, under cover of night, in compliance with her earnest 
entreaties, to rejoin her child, and to convey him and his nurse 
to England, that blessed land, where the veil of secrecy could 
be removed. 

About a week after the incarceration of Alvar, a young 
Moor sought and obtained admission to the presence of Juan 
Pacheco, the secretary of the Inquisition, as informer against 
Alvar Rodriguez. He stated that he had taken service with 
him as clerk or secretary, on condition that he would give him 
baptism and instruction in the holy Catholic faith ; that Alvar 
had not yet done so ; that many things in his establishment 
proclaimed a looseness of orthodox principles, which the Holy 
Office would do well to notice. Meanwhile he humbly offered 
a purse containing seventy pieces of gold, to obtain masses for 
his salvation. 

This last argument carried more weight than all the rest. 
The young Moor, who boldly gave his name as Hassan Ben 
Ahmed (which was confirmation strong of his previous state- 
ment, as in Leyva’s information of Alvar and his household 
the Moorish secretary was particularly specified), was listened 
to with attention, and finally received in Pacheco’s own 
household, as junior clerk and servant to the Holy Office. 

Despite his extreme youthfulness and delicacy of figure, 
face, and voice, Hassan’s activity and zeal to oblige every 
member of the Holy Office, superiors and inferiors, gradually 
gained Ir'm the favour and goodwill of all. There was no 
end to his resources for serving others ; and thus he had 
more opportunities of seeing the prisoners in a few weeks, 
than others of the same rank as himself had had in years. 
But the prisoner he most longed to see was still unfound, and 
it was not till summoned before his judges, in the grand hall 
of inquisition and of torture, Hassan Ben Ahmed gazed once 
iiiore upon, his former master. He had attended Pacheco in 
his situation of junior clerk, but had seated himself so deeply 
in the shade that, though every movement in both the face 
and form of Alvar was distinguishable to him, Hassan himsell 
was invisible. 


THE ESCAPE. 


167 


The trial, if trial such iniquitous proceedings may be 
called, proceeded ; but in nought did Alvar Rodriguez fail in 
his bearing or defence. Marvellous and superhuman must 
that power have been which, in such a scene and hour, pre- 
vented all betrayal of the true faith the victims bore. Once 
J udaism confessed, the doom was death ; and again and again 
have the sons of Israel remained in the terrible dungeons of 
the Inquisition — endured every species of torture during a 
space of seven, ten, or twelve years, and then been released, 
because no proof could be brought of their being indeed that 
accursed thing — a Jew. And then it was that they fled from 
scenes of such fearful trial to lands of toleration and freedom, 
and there embraced openly and rejoicingly that blessed faith, 
for which in secret they had borne so much. 

Alvar Rodriguez was one of these — prepared to suffer, but 
not reveal. They applied the torture, but neither word nor 
groan was extracted from him. Engrossed with the prisoner, 
for it was his task to write down whatever di.sjointed words 
might escape his lips, Pacheco neither noticed nor even re- 
membered the presence of the young Moor. No unusual 
paleness could be visible on his embrowned cheek, but his 
whole frame felt to himself to have become rigid as stone ; a 
deadly sickness had crept over him, and the terrible conviction 
of all which rested with him to do alone prevented his sinking 
senseless on the earth. 

The terrible struggle was at length at an end. Alvar was 
released for the time being, and remanded to his dungeon. 
Availing himself of the liberty he enjoyed in the little notice 
DOW taken of his movements, Hassan reached the prison be- 
fore either Alvar or his guards. A rapid glance told him its 
situation, overlooking a retired part of the court, cultivated 
as a garden. The height of the wall seemed about forty feet, 
and there were no windows of observation on either side. 
This was fortunate, the more so as Hassan had before made 
friends with the old gardener, and pretending excessive love 
of gardening, had worked just under the window, little dream- 
ing its vicinity to him he sought. 

A well-known Hebrew air, with its plaintive Hebrew words 
sung tremblingly and softl} under his window, first roused 
Alvar to the sense that a friend was near. He started, almost 
in superstitious terror, for the voice seemed an echo to that 
which was ever sounding in his heart. That loved one it 
eould not be, nay, he dared not even wish it ; but still the 


68 


THE ESCAPE. 


words were Hebrew, and, for the first time, memory flashed 
back a figure in Moorish garb who had flitted by him on his 
return to his prison, after his examination. 

Hassan, the faithful Hassan ! Alvar felt certain it could 
be none but he ; though, in the moment of sudden excitement, 
the voice had seemed another’s. He looked from the win- 
dow ; the Moor was bending over the flowers, but Alvar felt 
confirmed in his suspicions, and his heart throbbed with the 
sudden hope of liberty. He whistled, and a movement in the 
figure below convinced him he was heard. 

One point was gained ; the next was more fraught with 
danger, yet it was accomplished. In a bunch of flowers, 
drawn up by a thin string which Alvar chanced to possess, 
Ben Ahmed had concealed a file ; and as he watched it ascend, 
and beheld the flowers scattered to the winds, in token that 
they had done their work, for Alvar dared not retain them in 
his prison, Hassan felt again the prostration of bodily power 
which had before assailed him for such a different cause, and 
it was an almost convulsive effort to retain his faculties ; but 
a merciful Providence watched over him and Alvar, making 
the feeblest and the weakest, instruments of his all-sustaining 
love. 

We are not permitted space to linger on the various inge- 
nious methods adopted by Hassan Ben Ahmed to forward and 
mature his plans. Sufiice it that all seemed to smile upon 
him. The termination of the garden wall led, by a concealed 
door, to a subterranean passage running to the banks of the 
Tagus. This fact, as also the secret spring of the trap, the 
old gardener in a moment of unwise conviviality imparted to 
Ben Ahmed, little imagining the special blessing which such 
unexpected information secured. 

An alcayde and about twenty guards did sometimes patrol 
the garden within sight of Alvar’s window ; but this did not 
occur often, such oaution seeming unnecessary. 

It had been an evening of unwonted festivity among the 
soldiers and servants of the Holy Office, which had at length 
subsided into the heavy slumbers of general intoxication. 
Hassan had supped with the gardener, and plying him well 
with wine, soon produced the desired effect. Four months 
had the Moor spent within the dreaded walls, and the moment 
had now come when delay need be no more. At midnight 
all was hushed into profound silence, not a leaf stirred, and 
the night was so unusually still that the faintest sound would 


THE ESCAPE. 


160 


have been distinguished. Hassan stealthily crept round the 
outposts. Many of the guards were slumbering in various 
attitudes upon their posts, and others, dependent on his pro- 
mised watchfulness, were literally deserted. lie stood be- 
neath the window. One moment he clasped his hands and 
bowed his head in one mighty, piercing, though silent prayer, 
ami then dug hastily in the flower-bed at his feet, removing 
f7 :.!n thence a ladder of ropes, which had lain there some days 
coi cealed, and flung a pebble with correct aim against the 
biis of Alvar’s window. The sound, though scarcely loud 
enough to disturb a bird, reverberated on the trembling heart 
which heard, as if a thousand cannons had been discharged. 

A moment of agonized suspense, and Alvar Rodriguez 
stood at the window, the bar he had removed, in his hand. 
Ele let down the string, fo which Hassan’s now trembling 
hands secured the ladder and drew it to the wall. His de- 
scent could not have occupied two minutes, at the extent ; but 
to that solitary watcher what eternity of suffering did they 
seem ! Alvar was at his side, had clasped his hands, had 
called him Hassan ! brother !” in tones of intense feeling, 
but no word replied. He sought to fly, to point to the desired 
haven, but his feet seemed suddenly rooted to the earth. 
Alvar threw his arm around him, and drew him forwards. A 
sudden and unnatural strength returned. Noiselessly and 
fleetly as their feet could go, they sped beneath the shadow of 
the wall. A hundred yards alone divided them from the 
secret door. A sudden sound broke the oppressive stillness. 
It was the tramp of heavy feet and the clash of arms ; the 
light of many torches flashed upon the darkness. They 
darted forward in the fearful excitement of despair ; but the 
effort was void and vain. A wild shout of challenge — of 
alarm — and they were surrounded, captured, so suddenly, so 
rapidly, Alvar’s very senses seemed to reel ; but frightfully 
they were recalled. A shriek, so piercing, it seemed to rend 
the very heavens, burst through the still air. The figure of 
the Moor rushed from the detaining grasp of the soldiery, re- 
gardless of bared steel and pointed guns, and flung himself at 
the feet of Alvar. 

0 God, my husband — I have murdered him !” were the 
strange appalling words which burst upon his ear, and the 
lights flashing upon his face, as he sank prostrate and lifeless 
cn the earth, revealed to Alvar’s tortured senses the features 
of his WIFE. 


170 


THE ESCAPE. 


How long that dead faint continued Almah knew not, but 
when sense returned she found herself in a dark and dismal 
ceil, her upper garment and turban removed, while the plenti- 
ful supply of water, which had partially restored life, had 
removed in a great degree the dye which had given her coun- 
tenance its Moorish hue. Had she wished to continue con- 
cealment, one glance around her would have proved the effort 
vain. Her sex was already known, and the stern dark coun- 
tenances near her breathed but ruthlessness and rage. Some 
brief questions were asked relative to her name, intent, and 
faith, which she answered calmly. 

“ In revealing my name,” she said, “ my intention must 
also be disclosed. The wife of Alvar Rodriguez had not 
sought these realms of torture and death, had not undergone 
all the miseries of disguise and servitude, but for one hope, 
one intent — the liberty of her husband.” 

“ Thus proving his guilt,” was the rejoinder. “ Had you 
known him innocent, you would have waited the justice of the 
Holy Office to give him freedom.” 

“Justice!” she repeated, bitterly. “Had the innocent 
never suffered, I might have trusted. But I knew accusation 
was synonymous with death, and therefore came I here. For 
my faith, mine is my husband’s.” 

“ And know you the doom of all who attempt or abet 
escape ? Death — death by burning 1 and this you have hurled 
upon him and yourself It is not the Holy Office, but his 
wife who has condemned him and with gibing laugh they 
left her, securing with heavy bolt and bar the iron door. She 
darted forwards, beseeching them, as they hoped for mercy, to 
take her to her husband, to confine them underground a thou- 
sand fathoms deep, so that they might but be together ; but 
only the hollow echo of her own voice replied, and the 
wretched girl sunk back upon the ground, relieved from pre- 
sent suffering by long hours of utter insensibility. 

It was not till brought from their respective prisons to hear 
pronounced on them the sentence of death, that Alvar Rodri- 
guez and his heroic wife once more gazed upon each other. 

They had provided Almah, at her own entreaty, with female 
habiliments ; for, in the bewildering agony of her spirit, she 
attributed the failure of her scheme for the rescue of her hus- 
band to her having disobeyed the positive command of God, 
and adopted a male disguise, which in His eyes was abomination, 
but which in her wild deSire to save Alvar she had completely 


THE ESCAPE. 


I7i 


overlooked, and ske now in consequence skrunk from tke fata) 
garb witk agony and loatking. Yet despite tke kaggard look 
of intense mental and bodily suffering, tke loss of ker lovely 
hair, which she had cut close to her head, lest by the merest 
chance its length and luxuriance should discover her, so ex- 
quisite, so touching, was her delicate loveliness, that her very 
judges, stern, unbending as was their nature, looked on her 
with an admiration almost softening them to mercy. 

And now, for the first time, Alvar’s manly composure 
eeemed about to desert him. He, too, had suffered almost as 
herself, save that her devotedness, her love, appeared to give 
him strength, to endow him with courage, even to look upon 
her fate, blended as it now was with his own, with calm trust in 
that merciful God who called him thus early to Himse .f Ai- 
mak could not realise such thoughts. But one image was ever 
present, seeming to mock her very misery to madness. Her 
effort had failed ; had she not so wildly sought her husband’s 
escape — had she but waited — they might have released him ; 
and now, what was she but his murderess ? 

Little passed between the prisoners and their judges. 
Their guilt was all-sufficiently proved by their endeavours to 
escape, which in itself was a crime always visited by death , 
and for these manifold sins and misdemeanours they were sen- 
tenced to be burnt alive, on All Saints’ day, in the grand square 
of the Inquisition, at nine o’clock in the morning, and prO' 
clamation commanded to be made throughout Lisbon, that all 
who sought to witness and assist at the ceremony should receive 
remission of sins, and be accounted worthy servants of Jesus 
Christ. The lesser severity of strangling the victims before 
burning was denied them, as they neither repented nor had 
trusted to the justice and clemency of the Holy Office, but had 
attempted to avert a deserved fate by flight. 

Not a muscle of Alvar’s fine countenance moved during this 
awful sentence. He stood proudly and loftily erect, regarding 
those that spake with an eye, bright, stern unflinching as their 
own ; but a change passed over it as. breaking from the guard 
around, Almah flung herself on her knees at his feet. 

“ Alvar ! Alvar ! I have murdered — my husband, oh, my 
husband, say you forgive — forgive — ” 

‘•Hush, hush, beloved! mine ^wn heroic Almah, fail not 
now 1” he answered, with a calm and tender seriousness, which 
seeming to still that crushing agony, strengthened her to bear ; 
End raising her, he pressed her to his breast* 


172 


THE ESCAPE. 


“We have but to die as we have lived, my own ! true to 
that God whose chosen and whose first-born we are, have been, 
and shall be unto death, aye, and beyond it. He will protect 
our poor orphan, for He has promised the fatherless shall be 
His care. Look up, my beloved, and say you can face death 
with Alvar, calmly, faithfully, as you sought to live for him. 
God has chosen for us a better heritage than one of earth.” 

She raised her head from his bosom ; the terror and the 
agony had passed from that sweet face — it was tranquil as his 
own. 

“ It was not my own death I feared,” she said, ut faltering- 
ly, “ it was but the weakness of hqman .ove ; but it is over 
now. Love is mightier than death ; there is only love in 
heaven.” 

“ Aye !” answered Alvar, and proudly and sternly he waved 
back the soldiers who had hurried forward to divide them. 
“ Men of a mistaken and bloody creed, behold how the scorned 
and persecuted Israelites can love and die. While there was 
a hope that we could serve our God, the Holy and the only 
One, better in life than in death, it was our duty to preserve 
that life, and endure torture for His sake, rather than reveal 
the precious secret of our sainted faith and heavenly heritage. 
But now that hope is at an end, now that no human means can 
save us from the doom pronounced, know ye have judged rightly 
of our creed. We are those chosen children of God, by you 
deemed blasphemous and heretic. Do what you will, men of 
blood and guile, ye cannot rob us of our faith.” 

The impassioned tones of natural eloquence awed even the 
rude crowd around ; but more was not permitted. Rudely sev- 
ered, and committed to their own guards, the prisoners were 
borne to their respective dungeons. To Almah those earnest 
words had been as the voice of an angel, hushing every former 
pang to rest ; and in the solitude and darkness of the interven- 
ing hours, even the thought of her child could not rob her soul 
of its calm or prayer of its strength. 

The 1st of November, 1755, dawned cloudless and lovely 
as it had been the last forty days. Never had there been a 
season more gorgeous in its sunny splendour, more brilliant in 
the intense azure of its arching heaven than the present. Scarce- 
ly any rain had fallen loi many months, and the heat had at 
first been intolerable, but within the last six weeks a freshness 
wid coolness had infused the atmosphere and revived the earth. 

As it was not a regular auto da fe (Alvar and his wife being 


THE ESCAPE. 


173 


the only victims), the awful ceremony of burning was to take 
place in the stpare, of which the buildings of the Inquisition 
formed one side. Mass had been performed before daybreak, 
in the chapel of the Inquisition, at which the victims were com- 
pelled to be present, and about half-j ast seven the dread pro- 
cession left the Inquisition gates. The soldiers and minor 
servitors marched first, forming a hollow square, in the centre 
of which were the stakes and huge faggots piled around. Then 
came the sacred cross, covered with a black veil, and its body- 
guard of priests. The victims, each surrounded by monks, 
appeared next, closely followed by the highei officers and in- 
quisitors, and a band of fifty men, in rich dresses of black satin 
and silver, closed the procession. 

We have no space to linger on the ceremonies always at- 
tendant on the burning of Inquisitorial prisoners. Although, 
from the more private nature of the rites, these ceremonies were 
greatly curtailed, it was rather more than half an hour after 
nine when the victims were bound to their respective stakes^ 
and the executioners approached with their blazing brands. 

There was no change in the countenance of either prisoner. 
Pale they were, yet calm and firm ; all of human feeling had 
been merged in the martyr’s courage and the martyr’s faith. 

One look had been exchanged between them— of love spir- 
itualized to look beyond the grave — of encouragement to en- 
dure for their God, even to the end. The sky was still cloud- 
less, the sun still looked down on that scene of horror ; and 
then was a hush — a pause — for so it felt in nature, that stilled 
the very breathing of those around 

‘‘ Hear, 0 Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One — 
the Sole and Holy One ; there is no unity like His unity !” 
were the words which broke that awful pause, in a voice distinct, 
unfaltering, and musical as its wont ; and it was echoed by the 
sweet tones from woman’s lips, so thrilling in their melody, the 
rudest nature started. It was the signal of their fate. The 
executioners hastened forward, the brands were applied to the 
turf of the piles, the flames blazed up beneath their hand— when 
at that moment there came a shock as if the very earth were 
cloven asunder, the heavens rent in twain. A crash so loud, 
so fearful, so appalling, as if the whole of Lisbon had been shiv- 
ered to its foundations, and a shriek, or rather thousands and 
thousands of human voices, blended in one wild piercing cry 
of agony and terror, seeming to burst from every quarter at the 
Bclf-same instant, and fraught with universal woe. The build' 


174 


THE ESCAPE. 


ings around shook, as impelled by a mighty whirlwind, though 
no sound of such was heard. The earth heaved, yawned, closed, 
and rocked again, as the billows of the ocean were lashed to 
fury. It was a moment of untold horror. The crowd assem* 
bled to witness the martyrs’ death fled, wildly shrieking, on 
every side. Scattered to the heaving ground, the blazing piles 
lay powerless to injure ; their bonds were shivered, their guards 
were fled. One bound brought Alvar to his wife, and he clasped 
her in his arms. “ God, God of mercy, sa'e us yet again ! Be 
with us to the end !” he exclaimed, and faith winged the prayer. 
On, on he sped ; up, up, in direction of the heights, where he 
knew comparative safety lay ; but ere he reached them, the 
innumerable sights and sounds of horror that yawned upon his 
way ! Every street, and square, and avenue was choked with 
shattered ruins, rent from top to bottom ; houses, convents, and 
churches presented the most fearful aspect of ruin ; while every 
second minute a new impetus seemed to be given to the con- 
vulsed earth, causing those that remained still perfect to rock 
and rend. Huge stones, falling from every crack, were crush- 
ing the miserable fugitives as they rushed on, seeking safety 
they knew not where. The rafters of every roof, wrenched from' 
their fastenings, stood upright a brief while, and then fell in 
hundreds together, with a crash perfectly appalling. The very 
ties of nature were severed in the wild search for safety. Indi- 
vidual life alone appeared worth preserving. None dared seek 
the fate of friends — none dared ask, “ Who lives ?” in that one 
seene of universal death. 

On, on sped Alvar and his precious burden, on, over the 
piles of ruins ; on, unhurt amidst the showers of stones, which, 
hurled in the air as easily as a ball cast from an infant’s 
hand, fell back again laden with a hundred deaths ; on, amid' 
the rocking and yawning earth, beholding thousands swallow- 
ed up, crushed and maimed, worse than death itself, for they 
were left to a lingering torture — to die a thousand deaths in 
anticipating one ; on over the disfigured heaps of dead, and 
the unrecognised masses of what had once been magnificent 
and gorgeous buildings. His eye was well-nigh blinded with 
the shaking and tottering movement of all things animate 
and inanimate before him ; and his path obscured by the sud- 
den and awful darkness, which had changed that bright glow- 
ing hue of the sunny sky into a pall of dense and terrible 
blackness, becoming thicker and denser with every succeeding 
minute, till a darkness which might be felt, enveloped that 


THE ESCAPE, 


175 


devoted city as with the grim shadow of death. His eai was 
deafened by the appalling sounds of human agony and Na- 
ture’s wrath ; for now, sounds as of a hundred watersjiouts, 
the dull continued roar of subterranean thunder, becoming at 
times loud as the discharge of a thousand cannons ; at others, 
resembling the sharp grating sound of hundreds and hundreds 
of chariots driven full speed over the stones ; and this, min 
gled with the piercing shrieks of women, the hoarser cries 
and shouts of men, the deep terrible groans of mental agony, 
and the shriller screams of instantaneous death, had usurped 
the place of the previous awful stillness, till every sense of 
those who yet survived seemed distorted and maddened. 
And Nature herself, convulsed and freed from restraining 
bonds, appeared about to return to that chaos whence she had 
leaped at the word of God, 

Still, still Alvar rushed forwards, preserved amidst it all, 
as if the arm of a merciful Providence was indeed around 
him and his Almah, marking them for life in the very midst 
of death. Making his rapid way across the ruins of St. Paul’s, 
which magnificent church had fallen in the first shock, crush- 
ing the vast congregation assembled within its walls, Alvar 
paused one moment, undecided whether to seek the banks of 
the river or still to make for the western heights. There 
was a moment’s hush and pause in the convulsion of nature, 
but Alvar dared not hope for its continuance. Ever and anon 
the earth still heaved, and houses opened from base to roof 
and closed without further damage. With a brief fervid cry 
for continued guidance and protection, scarcely conscious 
which way in reality he took, and still folding Almah to his 
bosom — so supernaturally strengthened that the weakness of 
humanity seemed far from him — Rodriguez hurried on, taking 
the most open path to the Estrella Hill. An open space was 
gained, half-way to the summit, commanding a view of the 
banks of the river and the ruins around. Panting, almost 
breathless, yet still struggling with his own exhaustion to en- 
courage Almah, Alvar an instant rested, ere he plunged anew 
into the narrower streets. A shock, violent, destructive, con- 
vulsive as the first, flung them prostrate ; while the renewed 
and increased sounds of wailing, the tremendous and repeated 
crashes on every side, the disappearance of the towers, steeples, 
and turrets which yet remained, revealed the further destruc- 
tiveness which had befallen. A new and terrible cry added 
to the universal horror. 


176 


THE ESCAPE. 


“ The sea ! the sea !” Alvar sprung to his feet and, clasped 
in each other’s arms, he and Almah gazed beneath. Not 8 
breath of wind stirred, yet the river (which being at that point 
four miles wide appeared like the element they had termed it) 
tossed and heaved as impelled by a mighty storm — and on it 
came, roaring, foaming, tumbling, as every bound were loosed ; 
on, over the land to the very heart of the devoted city, sweep 
ing off hundreds in its course, and retiring with such velocity 
and so far beyond its natural banks, that vessels were left 
dry which had five minutes before ridden in water seven fath- 
oms deep. Again and again this phenomenon took place ; the 
vessels in the river, at the same instant, whirled round and 
round with frightful rapidity, and smaller boats dashed up- 
wards, falling b^ack to disappear beneath the booming waters. 
As if chained to the spot where they stood, fascinated by this 
very horror, Alvar and his wife yet gazed ; their glance fixed 
on the new marble quay, where thousands and thousands of 
the fugitives had congregated, fixed, as if unconsciously fore- 
boding what was to befall. Again the tide rushed in — on, on, 
over the massive ruins, heaving, raging, swelling, as a living 
thing ; and at the same instant the quay and its vast burthen 
of humanity sunk within an abyss of boiling waters, into 
which the innumerable boats around were alike impelled, 
leaving not a trace, even when the angry waters returned to 
their channel, suddenly as they had left it, to mark what had 
been. 

’Twas the voice of God impelled me hither, rather than 
pausing beside those fated banks. Almah, my best beloved, 
bear up yet a brief while more — He will spare and save us 
as he hath done now. Merciful Providence! Behold another 
wrathful element threatens to swallow up all of life and pro- 
perty which yet remains. Great God, this is terrible I” 

And terrible it was: from three several parts of the ruined 
city huge fires suddenly blazed up, hissing, crackling, ascend- 
ing as clear colunns of liquid fiame; up against the pitchy 
darkness, infusing it with tenfold horror — spreading on every 
side — consuming all of wood and wall which the earth ana 
v/ater had left unscathed ; wreathing its serpent-like folds 
in and out the ruins, forming strange and terribly beautiful 
shapes of glowing colouring ; fascinating the eye with admira- 
tion, yet bidding the blood chill and the flesh creep. Fresh 
cries and shouts had marked its rise and progress ; but, aghast 
and stupified, those who yet survived made no effort to check 


THE ESCAPE. 


177 


its way, and on e^ery side it spread, forming lanes and squares 
of glowing red, flinging its lurid glare so vividly around, that 
even those on the distant heights could see to read by it; and 
fearful was the scene that awful light revealed. Now, for the 
first time could Alvar trace the full extent of destruction which 
had befallen. That glorious city, which a few brief hours 
previous lay reposing in its gorgeous sunlight — mighty in its 
palaces and towers — in its churches, convents, theatres, maga- 
zines, and dwellings — rich in its numberless artizans and 
stores —lay perished and prostrate as the grim spectre of long 
ages past, save that the fearful groups yet passing to and fro, 
or huddled in kneeling and standing masses, some bathed in 
the red glare of the increasing fires, others Vlack and shape- 
less — save when a sudden flame flashed on them, disclosing 
what they were — revealed a strange and horrible present, yet 
lingering amid what seemed the shadows of a fearful past. 
Nor was the convulsion of nature yet at an end ; — the earth 
still rocked and heaved at intervals, often impelling the hiss- 
ing flames more strongly and devouringly forward, and by 
tossing the masses of burning ruin to and fro. gave them the 
semblance of a sea of flame. The ocean itself, too, yet rose 
and sunk, and rose again ; vessels were torn from their cables, 
anchors wrenched from their soundings and hurled in the air 
1 — while the wan mg waters, the muttering thunders, the crack- 
ling flames, formed a combination of sounds which, even with- 
out their dread adjuncts of human agony and terror, were all- 
sufiicient to freeze the very life-blood, and banish every sense 
and feeling, save that of stupifying dread. 

But human love, and superhuman faith, saved from tho 
stagnating horror. The conviction that the God of his fa- 
thers was present with him, and would save him and Alinah 
to the end, never left him for an instant, but urged him to 
exertions which, had he not had this all-supporting faith, he 
would himself have deemed impossible. And his faith spake 
truth. The God of infinite mercy, who had stretched out II is 
own right hand to save, and marked the impotence of the wrath 
and cruelty of man, was with him still, and, despite of the 
horrors yet lingering round them, despite of the varied trials, 
fatigues, and privations attendant on their rapid flight, led 
them to life and joy, and bade them stand forth the witnesses 
and proclaimers of His unfailing love. His everlasting provi- 
dence ! 

With the great earthquake of Lisbon, the commencement 


178 


THE ESCAPE. 


Df whicli our preceding pages have faintly endeavoured to 
portray, and its terrible effects on four millions of square 
miles, our tale has no further connection. The third day 
brought our poor fugitives to Badajoz, where Alvar’s property 
had been secured. They tarried there only long enough to 
learn the blessed tidings of Hassan Ben Ahmed’s safe arrival 
in England with their child ; that his faithfulness, in con- 
junction with that of their agent in Spain, had already safely 
transmitted the bulk of their property to the English funds ; 
and to obtain Ben Ahmed’s address, forward tidings of their 
providential escape to him, and proceed on their journey. 

An anxious but not a prolonged interval enabled them to 
accomplish it safely, and once more did the doubly-rescued 
press their precious boy to their yearning hearts, and feel that 
conjugal and parental love burned, if it could be, the dearer, 
brighter, more unspeakably precious, from the dangers they 
had passed; and not human love alone. The veil of secrecy 
was removed, they were in a land whose merciful and liberal 
government granted to the exile and the wanderer a home of 
peace and rest, where they might worship the God of Israel 
according to the law he gave ; and in hearts like those of 
Alvar and his Almah, prosperity could have no power to ex- 
tinguish or deaden the religion of love and faith which adver- 
sity had engendered. 

The appearance of old Gonzalos and his family in Eng- 
land, a short time after Alvah’s arrival there, removed their 
last remaining anxiety, and gave them increased cause for 
thankfulness. Not a member of the merchant’s family, and 
more wonderful still, not a portion of his property, had been 
lost amid the universal ruin ; and to this very day, his descend- 
ants recall his providential preservation by giving, on every 
returning anniversary of that awful day, certain articles of 
clothing to a limited number of male and female poor.'^ 


* A fact 


filla, an«i its |iiljaMtants. 

A SKETCH. 

On the outskirts of a certain country town, which for euphony 
we will call Briarstone, from its being situated in one of the 
most picturesque but least known parts of old England, and 
almost imbedded in hills and lanes, where the wood or briar- 
rose grew redundantly, was a certain castellated-looking man- 
sion, glowing with red bricks and bright blue slates, storied 
with large-paned windows, framed with such fresh green, that 
it would seem as if the painter’s bruslilfeould never have been 
absent above a month together. The entrance-door, of most 
aristocratic dimensions, was of bright glazed yellow, nevei 
sullied by dust or dimness. Below the portentous-looking 
circular knocker (Briarstone was yet in happy ignorance of 
the z<w-aristocracy of knockers) was a large brass plate, glit- 
tering in the sunshine like burning gold, and bearing thereon, 
in large and dignified letters, as if the name was of such im- 
portance in itself that it required no engraver’s ornament, the 
monosyllables — portentous in their very brevity — Miss Brown. 
The gravel walk which led up to the imposing flight of steps 
(white as the most scrupulous care could make them) that the 
yellow door surmounted, was kept so particularly neat, that 
the very birds feared to alight upon it, lest they should be 
swept off for some intrusive leaf or twig, quicker even than 
their voluntary flight. It was impossible to look upon the 
exterior of the mansion without being impressed with a grand 
idea of its as yet invisible interior. 

Standing, as Bed Bose Villa did, in a spacious garden, 
full ten minutes’ walk out of the town, it was marvellous how 
the daily events of this said town became known within its 
walls, as if a train had been laid — a sort of electrical con- 
ductor — to the interior of every dwelling, which conveyed 
back to its starting-place all the information required. How- 
ever invisible the means of communication, the effects were 
certain; for Miss Brown knew everything, even before the 
persons affected knew it themselves. 


FvED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 


1 80 


No'W’, Miss Brown, though her dignified name appeared oe 
the brass plate solus, was not the sole inmate of this stately 
mansion by any means. She was, in fact, one of a multitude : 
for there were times when the capacious walls of Red Rose 
A’’illa enshrined no fewer than fifty living souls. The truth 
must out on our paper, though Miss Brown would have been 
shocked almost to annihilation had any one suggested the pro* 
priety of permitting it to speak on her cherished brass plate 
— Miss Brown kept a first-rate finishing academy for young 
ladies of the first families, and a boarding-house for all who 
needed kind friends, cheerful lodgings, and comfortable board. 
Then she had an English, and a French, and an Italian, and 
of course a German teacher — all exemplary young women. 
Masters were rarely admitted, it being a gross impropriety in 
Miss Brown’s educational code to accustom young ladies to 
male tuition. 

One indeed there was, a Mr. Gilbert Givevoice ; but then 
Miss Brown and his lamented mother had been such friends, 
that at one time they had thought of becoming another Miss 
Ponsonby and Lady Eleanor Butler, and causing a sensation 
by retiring to live on friendship ; but, unfortunately, before 
this could be carried into elFect, a Mr. Givevoice appeared 
and Miss Brown was left to mourn the inconsistency of those 
professions which had declared friendship all-sufficient for life. 
The offence was not forgiven for many years ; but when Mrs. 
Givevoice was left a widow. Miss Brown generously relented, 
and Gilbert showing some musical talent (magnified by the 
Briarstonians into marvellous genius), he was gradually in- 
stalled as music-master general, and aid extraordinary in all 
the concerns of Red Rose Villa. 

Besides five-and-twenty pupils, a dozen boarders, four 
teachers, and half-a-dozen servants. Miss Brown was blessed 
with two brothers and two sisters, to all of whom she had per- 
formed most inimitably a mother’s part. Many marvelled that 
such grown men as Mr. Gustavus and Mr. Adolphus Brown 
should so contentedly succumb to female domination, and not 
seek homes for themselves ; but petticoat government was so 
supreme in Red Rose Villa, that even the hint of such a thing 
would have been far too great a stretch of masculine audacity ; 
and, in fact, they were very well contented where they were. 
Mr. Adolphus was a banker’s clerk, and was only known at 
home as going to sleep upon the sofa. Mr. Gustavus had been 
(according to his own account), at one time a land-surveyor, 


V%t) ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 181 

at another, an architect, and then an engraver ; but he was 
he declared, one of the unlucky ones, and so quietly sunk 
down in his sister’s establishment, as merely a domestic man. 
who could set his hand to anything. He taught writing and 
arithmetic, and oriental tinting, and a variety of finishing ac- 
complishments ; and copied music, and invented patterns for 
all the young lady-boarders who were worth something more 
than smiles. Mr. Adolphus was always asleep. Mr Gusta- 
vus never seemed to sleep at all ; thm as a lath, he was here, 
there, and everywhere, busying himself in everybody’s con- 
cerns, but never succeeding in forwarding his own. 

Miss Brown, portly and majestic in carriage as of imper- 
turbable gravity in look, possessed a fund of high-sounding 
choice-worded, conversational powers — that is to say, her 
speech, once entered upon, flowed on in such a continuous 
gently-murmuring stream, that to break or interrupt it by a 
rejoinder was utterly iaipossible. The voice was as impertur- 
bable and unvarying as the face. She was wondrously learned; 
schooled in the lore of the ancient, and wise in the ways of 
the modern world. No scheme could be set afloat at Briar- 
stone unless Miss Brown had been consulted ; no shop was the 
fashion unless Miss Brown had patronised ; no case of distress 
worth relieving, unless forwarded by Miss Brown; and, in 
sober truth, Miss Brown was benevolent — was generous — did 
the kindest deeds imaginable ; but as she never left her pin- 
nacle of ice to look into human hearts, lest their warmth 
should thaw hers, she received neither the regard nor esteem 
which her sterling qualities in reality merited. Miss Wil- 
helmina Brown was her antipodes — all sweetness — all gra- 
ciousness- -all fascination ! Miss Brown was learned, and 
not accomplished; Miss Wilhelmina accomplished and not 
learned. Mi.-s Brown was all sobriety. Miss Wilhelmina 
all smiles. At thirty, she learnt the harp ; at five-and-thirty 
the guitar ; at forty, she discovered she had a voice, and could 
sing inimitably — all the Briarstone soiree.'i said so, and of 
course it must be true. Whole scenes from the French tra- 
gedians — stanzas from Dante — long lines from Schiller — Miss 
W ilhelmina would recite with such pathos, such expression, 
there was no occasion to understand the languages to enter into 
such charming recitations. English poetry was not ventured 
upon; Byron and Moore were charming, certainly; but then 
her sister’s responsible position — she dared not admit them 
upon the drawing-room tables of Bed Bose Villa — she could 
only indulge herself strictly in private. 


182 RED ROSE VILLA; AND ITS INHABITANTS. 

/ 

Miss Angelica, the youngest of the family by some years, 
was different to either sistdr. Nature had not been very 
bountiful in the powers of the brain, but, in their stead, had 
endowed her with powers of housewifery in no common degree. 
She managed all the domestic concerns of this human Noah’a 
ark as no one else could. From morning till night she was 
moving ; so overlooking every department, that at the farthest 
sound of her footsteps (none of the lightest, for Miss Angelica 
was as short and stout as Miss Wilhelmina was tall and lan- 
guidly slim) every brush and broom seemed endowed with 
double velocity. Jingle, jingle, went a huge bunch of keys — - 
pat, pat, her substantial feet, from kitchen to attic — scullery 
to roof Even if she sat down, her fingers continued the same 
perpetual motion, in the creation of sundry caps, bonnets, 
head-dresses — all the paraphernalia of female elegancies. No 
one dressed so becomingly as the Misses Brown ; and Miss 
Angelica was considered the originator and inventor of fashions 
which all Briarstone followed. 

The pupils were like most misses in their teens. Origina- 
lity of character always succumbed to system in Bed Bose 
Villa. Miss Brown’s was a finishing academy for manners as 
well as morals ; and so in the weekly soirees of her mansion, 
the young ladies, by alternate eights, appeared in the drawing- 
room, dressed very becomingly, to sit down and smile, and 
answer in monosyllables ; to play their last specimen of Herz 
or Thalberg, or sing their last bravura, or make one in a qua- 
drille ; but in all they did to bear witness to the admirable 
rode of tuition and government carried out in Bed Bose 
Villa. 

The boarders presented a variety of characters ; but as 
our sketch only extends over one evening, we can merely men- 
tion them generally. Ofl&cers’ widows, on half-pay, who, by 
a residence in Miss Brown’s establishment, combined first-rate 
education for their daughters, and society for themselves ; 
ancient spinsters, who had not given up the idea of becoming 
middle-aged matrons, well knowing that Miss Brown’s philan- 
thropic disposition gave them opportunities for the cultivation 
of the tender passion, when any one else would have imagined 
the time for such juvenilities was over. In the fortnightly 
soirees^ one, two, or three pairs of lovers were always found 
among Miss Brown’s guests — unfortunates, whose interminable 
engagements, from pecuniary difficulties, or the stern dissent 
of cruel guardians, would have seemed hopeless to all but for 


RED ROSE VILLAj AND ITS INHABlTANiS. 183 

the energetic encouragement of the benevolent Miss Brown^ 
who always acted on the idea 

“ Passion, I see, is catching.” 

And. still more urgent reason, never did a wedding-party issue 
from the well-glazed portals of Bed Bose Villa (and such events 
did really occur) but an accession of pupils and boarders im- 
mediately followed. 

Amongst the boarders were two young ladies, sisters’ chil- 
dren, and both orphans, but the similitude went no further. 
Isabel Morland, the eldest by two years, was a sparkling bru- 
nette — satirical — clever ; eccentric in habits, uneven in temper, 
and capricious as the wind. But what did all this signify ? 
She was an heiress ; and, reckoning according to the estimation 
of Briarstone, a rich one. She had been a pupil, and her love 
of display, a coquetry, and determination to get a husband, 
had occasioned her resolve to remain with a family whom in 
heart she detested, rather than reside with the only relations 
she possessed, old respectable folks in the country. She had 
sense enough to know that her fortune, inexhaustible as it 
seemed in Briarstone, would not endow her with the smallest 
consequence elsewhere. And though so highly gifted by nature 
as, had she selected the society of superior minds, to have be- 
come both estimable and happy ; yet her love of power — of 
feeling herself superior to any one with whom she associated 
— made her voluntarily become a member of a family whom 
she lost no- opportunity of turning into objects of satire and 
abuse ; receiving the marked attentions of Mr. Gustavus Brown 
so graciously, when no better offered, as to give him every 
hope of ultimate success ; but cold, distant, and disdainful, 
at the remotest chance of achieving a more desirable conquest. 

Very different was Laura Gascoigne. Unusually retiring 
in manner, the peculiar charm hovering around her could better 
be felt than described. Possessing neither the wit nor the 
cleverness, or, as Coleridge so happily expresses it, the brain 
in the hand,” which characterised her cousin, she had judg- 
ment, feeling, thought — the rare power of which 

enabled her to succeed in all she attempted — the quiet, per- 
severing energy which leads to completion, even in the simplest 
trifles, and prevents all mere superficial acquirement. Per- 
haps early sorrow had deepened natural characteristics. Prom 
jhe time her mother became widowed, no pen can describe 


184 RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 

the devotedness which was the tie between them. The failing 
health of Mrs. Gascoigne had, during the last year of her life, 
compelled a residence in the south of England ; and, when in 
the neighbourhood of Briarstone, the real kindness to the 
mother and daughter received from the Misses Brown induced 
Laura, after Mrs. Gascoigne’s death, to make their house hei 
home, till she could decide on her future plans. She was in- 
deed lonely upon earth ; and the straitened means which had 
urged her to teach many hours in the day, to supply her mother 
with luxuries and comforts, by stamping them as poor, pre- 
vented her being known in those circles where her gentle 
virtues would have gained her real appreciating friends. 

All that she had sacrificed in her filial devotion even her 
mother never knew, though that mighty sacrifice had been 
made full two years before her death. An invalid, whose life 
might pass from niglit till morning with none on earth to love 
and tend her but her child, Laura could not leave her. And 
when she had said this, her lover, in all the jealous irritation 
of an angry, passionate nature, reproached her that she did 
not, could not love him, else every other consideration would 
be waived — that the reports of her affections having been trans- 
ferred to another were true, and therefore it was better they 
should part. She had meekly left him to resume her sad duties 
by her mother’s side, and they had never met again. She 
knew he had been on the eve of leaving England for an honour- 
able appointment in the West Indies, to which he had been 
nominated. But the wish would rise that he would write ; 
he could not continue in anger towards her ; time* must show 
the purity, the justice, of her motive in her refusal, at such a 
moment, to leave England. And gladly would she have re- 
mained in one spot, hoping, believing on ; but her mother need- 
ed constant change, and they had gone from place to place, 
that perhaps, even if he had written, no letter could have 
reached her. Three years had passed ; and if the hope to 
prove her truth still lingered, the expectation had indeed long 
gone. And so Laura’s early youth had passed, with not one 
flower cast upon it save those her own sweet disposition gave. 
Miss Brown’s establishment was not, indeed, a congenial home ; 
but she had her own room, her own pursuits ; and though often 
yearning — how intensely! — for sympathy and intellectual 
companionship, could be thankful and contented. She could 
not love the Miss Browns, but she respected their sterling 
^[ualities, and regretted their eccentricities : and so found 


RED ROSE VILLA. AND ITS INHABITANTS, 


185 


some good point to dilate on when others quizzed and laughed 
at them, that her presence always checked ill-nature. 

“ What is the cause of all this unusual confusion and ex- 
citement, Isabel?” inquired Laura one morning, entering her 
cousin’s apartment: “do enlighten me. You always know 
everything ais thoroughly as Miss Brown herself” 

“• And you always know nothing, my most rustic cousin. 
Fortunate for you, you have so superior a person as myself 
to come to. There is to be a grand assembly in the lower 
regions to-night, and so of course sweet Wilhelmina is practis- 
ing and tuning enough to terrify away all harmony, and Ange- 
lica is buried in all the mysteries of supper craft. Don’t look 
unbelieving, it is true.” 

“ And it is Wednesday, not Saturday, Isabel.” 

“ Granted, Laura ; but such a grand event as receiving a 
baronet and his sister demands everything uncommon, even 
to a change of night. It would be doing him no honour to 
receive him on a usual soiree night Learned Lucretia is deep 
in the last novel and this month’s most fashionable magazine. 
Folks report that Sir Sydney Harcourt likes literary conver- 
sation, I mean to try if Isabel Morland will not have more 
effect in captivating than the three graces, Lucretia, Wilhel- 
mina, and Angelica altogether, backed by their whole corps 
of spinsters and schoolgirls. What has seized you, Laura, 
that you do not scold me, as usual, for my self-conceit? Do 
you begin to feel it is breath wasted ? My dear, you shall 
see me in perfection to-night. Sir Sydney shall not depart 
heart-whole from Briarstone, though he does look as if nobody 
within it could be worth speaking to.” 

Isabel was standing before a large mirror, much too en- 
grossed ill admiring her own face and studying various atti- 
tudes, and the best mode of arranging her glossy black hair, 
to notice how strangely and fitfully Laura’s colour varied, and 
the voice in which she said, “ Sir Sydney Harcourt, is he a 
new resident at Briarstone ?” was not sufficiently agitated to 
cause remark, save to a much quicker perception than Isabel’s. 

“ Yes, within the last few days; such a sensation has hia 
arrival made, you must have heard of it even in your sanc' 
turn.” 

“ My dear Isabel, have I not been staying out the la&l 
fortnight, and only returned last night ?” . 

“ Oh, by-the bye, so you have.” 

“ How much you must have missed me !” 


186 


RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 


“ I did the first few days ; but, my good child, how could 
t think of anything but the new lion, splendid as he is, too % 
lie is only here for a month. Will you dare me to the field, 
Laura, to make that month two, or six, or something more 
into the bargain 

No, Isabel, you need no daring. Only remember your 
own peace may be endangered too.” 

“ My peace ! my dear foolish child. I shall see Sir Sydney 
it my feet long before any such catastrophe. Lady Har- 
lourt ! how well it sounds !” 

“ And Mr. Brown, Isabel ?” 

“ The wretch ! we have quarrelled irretrievably.” 

“ And when I left you were giving him every encourage- 
Qient vou could.” 

“ Nonsense, Laura ! You are always preaching of my 
giving encouragement. The poor wretch would die in despair 
'f I did not relent sometimes.” 

“ Better, as I have always told you, put an end to his at- 
tentions at once. I am certain he would cease to persecute, if 
you did not encourage him, as you know you do.” 

“ I know I do. Poor dear Gussy — he is very well, when 
I can get no one else.” 

“ But indeed, Isabel, you are very wrong ; your manner to 
him is the talk of every one.” 

“ I do not care for what every one thinks, as I have told 
you hundreds of times. I will just pursue my own inclina- 
tion, whether the world approve of it or not. What is the 
world to me? You cannot possibly imagine I mean ever to 
become Mrs. Brown. Why, the very name is enough to make 
me drown myself first. No, I am free to receive all Sir 
Sydney’s attentions, which I fully mean to win. You know I 
have some power, Laura.” 

To attract but not to keep, Isabel.” 

“ Laura, if you were not a thorough simpleton, I should 
say you had designs on Sir Sydney yourself. Come, will you 
run a tilt with me for him ? I will be generous, and keep 
back some of my fascinations, that we may try as equals, if 
you will.” 

“ Thank you for the proposal, but it would hardly bo fair. 
You will burst upon Sir Sydney in the freshness and bril- 
liancy of novelty, in addition to all your other attractions. I 
have not even novelty to befriend me, for I rather think I 
have met him before.” 


RED ROSE VILLA. AND IIS INHABITANTS. 


187 


“ Sir Sydney Harcourt ! How sly of you not to tell mo 
all this time. When? — how? — where?” 

“ How could I tell you, before, Isabel, when you have 
scarcely given me breathing space ?” 

“ But do you know anything of his former life ? Report 
says he was jilted by a poor insignificant girl, and has 
been a professed woman-hater ever since. I do believe there 
he is in his curricle. What a splendid set-out ! — do look, 
Laura. Stay — I shall see him better in the next room.” 

And to the next room she flew, so engrossed with Sir 
Sydney’s splendid driving, that she did not perceive that 
Laura had not accepted the invitation, but had quietly retired 
to her own room. 

“ Miss Gascoigne, I trust you will join us to-night. I ex- 
pect the honour of Sir Sydney Harcourt’s and his accom- 
plished sister’s company. Your manners and appearance are 
so completely comme il faut that they will, no doubt, be glad 
to meet you. I do not approve of young ladies hunting after 
gaiety and dissipation ; but it is a great advantage to mix in 
such society as I can offer you to-night. I shall expect to see 
you, of course,” and without waiting Tor a reply — for such a 
thing as dissent to Miss Brown’s commands was not to be 
thought of — Miss Brown, or learned Lucretia, in Isabel Mor 
land’s phraseology, majestically floated onwards. 

“ Laura, my sweet Laura, play over the accompaniment to 
this luscious ‘ Ah te o cara.’ Mr. Givevoice will be here to- 
night, so I shall not want you ; but now, if you will assist me, 
you will do me such a favour. The music is so mellifluous, it 
will quite repay you for the trouble.” And Laura complied, 
regretting most sincerely that a person possessing such real 
sense and goodness as Miss Wilhelmina should so expose her- 
self to ridicule, but feeling that, young as she was, it was more 
her duty to bear with folly than reprove it. 

“ Laura, dear, put the finishing bows to Lucretia’s cap for 
me, there’s a love. I have such innumerable things to see 
after and get done before seven o’clock to-night, that I have 
no time to breathe.” 

You are always busy, my dear Miss Angelica. I wish 
you would make me of use. I shall finish this in ten 
minutes ; so you had better give me something else to do.” 

You are the best girl in the world, Laura, my dear ; but 
you can’t assist me in household concerns. No one can ; they 
worry me to death — but I don’t grow thin upon them, that’s 
9 


188 RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS liVHALITANTS. 

cne comfort. Come I am glad you are smiling, Laura, mj 
dear. What a pity you are not more merry. J3y-tlre-bye, 
you may help me very much — I shall never get through the 
tea-making all by myself.” 

“ Let me take it off your hands entirely. I will with 
pleasure.” 

“ Thank you — thank you, my dear ; but nothing would 
go right if I were not there too, depend upon it. If there is 
not Molly only going now to dust the rooms — the lazy 
huzzy !” and off trotted Miss Angelica, to Lcold and dust by 
turns. 

The evening at length arrived. Confusion and noise, and 
sundry domestic jars, had subsided into silence and solemnity 
actually portentous. The pupils, with the exception of six 
most highly favoured, had been dismissed to their dormitories, 
and the school-room fitted up for the supper, which, under 
Miss Angelica’s auspices in the culinary department, Miss 
Wilhelmina’s in the elegant arrangement of fruit and flowers, 
and Miss Lucretia’s in the selection of sweets and solids least 
hurtful to the gastronomic and digestive powers, was to be 
unequalled. 

In the front drawing-room the Misses and Messrs. Brown 
and their train of boarders sat in imposing state. The covers 
had all been removed from the couches, di,airs-longues^ otto- 
mans, etc., displaying a variety of embroidery by the fair fin- 
gers of Miss Wilhelmina, and the splendid designs of Mr. 
Gustavus. The harp was uncovered ; the guitar, with its 
broad blue ribbon, laid carelessly on the grand piano-forte, 
which was open ; and at his post on the music-stool sat Mr. 
Gilbert Givevoice, fair and famous, smiling very sweetly on 
his tall pupil. Miss Wilhelmina, who was in earnest conversa- 
tion by his side. Miss Brown was on the sofa, looking wiser 
and grander than ever. A vacant place was left beside her, 
which no one thought of taking, for that it was designed for 
Miss Harcourt, being as well known as if the name had been 
chalked up on the wall behind. Presently all the presentable 
inhabitants of Briarstone flocked in, attired in their very 
best, and satisfying Miss Brown as to the imposing appeal ance 
of her saloon. The back drawing-room, somewhat less bril- 
liantly lighted, was occupied, as usual, by three or four sets of 
lovers. The blue room opened from it, and Laura was there 
snsconced as Miss Angelica’s aid extraordinary. The door 
being thrown open permitted a full view of the two drawing- 


RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 


18S 


rooms and all their proceedings, though from the blue room 
occupying a sort of angular corner, its inmates could not even 
be observed Isabel Morland, looking actually dazzling from 
her becoming dress and indescribable lournure^ had choseii to 
settle down into a regular flirtation with a Mr. Manby, a 
young man she sometimes deigned to notice, at others deemed 
too little even to be visible. Mr. Gustavus looked black as a 
thunder-cloud ; his thin form moving in and out the circle, 
but always hovering nearest Isabel, who took no more notice 
of him than of his vacant chair. 

At length the magic words, “Sir Sydney and Miss Har- 
court.” were pronounced, and the door flung back as if its 
very hinges should suffer martyrdom to do them honour ; 
and the whole roomful rose, as by one movement, except 
Isabel, who carelessly remained seated. Then came sundry 
flourishes and introductions, and mutual bows and curtseys, 
till Miss Harcourt fairly sank down on her seat of honour, 
casting a rueful glance at her brother, who returned it with 
one so irresistibly comic, that Isabel, to whom alone the look 
was visible, was compelled to smile too. Sir Sydney, whose 
eye was wandering round the room, caught the look, eagerly 
bowed recognition, and in another minute was at her side, 
leaving Mr. Gustavus with half his tale untold. 

That Sir Sydney was handsome, and had all the ease and 
elegance of a polished gentleman, there could nol be two 
opinions about ; but there was something more about him, no 
one could exactly define what. He was too well bred to be 
haughty or repulsive when he had quite willingly accepted 
Miss Brown’s invitation ; yet he certainly did not seem in his 
element. He did smile and talk well; but Miss Wilhelmina 
whispered to an intimate friend to observe how very melan- 
choly his countenance was when at rest ; she was certain he 
was not a happy man, and what could be the reason? Miss 
Harcourt was pronounced, after a trial of ten minutes, a most 
charming, accomplished, elegant girl ; she was in reality 
merely an unaffected, genteel, quiet, little personage, without 
any pretension whatever, and somewhat past what she deemed 
girlhood. 

The evening proceeded most harmoniously. Tea was ac- 
complished elegantly, under Miss Angelica’s active surveil- 
lance. She was in the blue room, back and front drawing- 
rooms, so quickly, one after the other, that she seemed gifted 
with ubiquity for the evening. Then Miss Brown proposed 


190 


RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 


music and dancing ; she thought they were such delectable 
adjuncts to young people’s amusement — such social pleasures^ 
etc. ; to all of which Miss Harcourt gracefully assented. She 
would he happy to perform her part ; her brother seldom 
danced. A general lamentation followed. What a loss to 
the dancers . perhaps he would prefer music ; they could offer 
him some very passable ; and a concert commenced, in ap- 
pearance very naturally given, but in reality performed in 
exact accordance with well-cogitated arrangements before- 
hand. 

Whether Sir Sydney benefited by the succession of “ sweet 
Bounds,” or not, remained a problem; as Isabel, to Miss 
Brown and Mr. Gustavus’s excessive annoyance, kept him so 
exclusively her attendant, that it required all his acquaintance 
with worldly tact to save him from rudeness to his hostesses, 
at the same time that ho fully encouraged his companion. 
The only thought Isabel could spare from Sir Sydney was for 
Laura to witness her triumph ; but Laura was nowhere to be 
seen. If Isabel could have known that her cousin saw her 
and Sir Sydney too, and the sickness of heart that vision 
gave, she might have triumphed more. 

Dancing was at length accomplished, and Sir Sydney 
actually joined in it, dancing two quadrilles successively with 
Isabel, and then remaining standing with her, leaning against 
the piano, in such apparent earnest conversation as allowed 
attention to nothing else. Mr. Manby and several other 
beaux of Briarstone, whom Isabel never disdained at the 
public balls, when none superior were to be had, came in 
humble adoration entreating the honour of her hand. The 
toss of the head and curl of the lip with which they were 
refused elicited an expression in Sir Sydney’s eye and very 
handsome mouth which must have startled Isabel, had she not 
been too engrossed with her own apparent conquest tc 
perceive it. 

“ Sydney, you are wrong,” whispered Miss Harcourt, as 
Isabel, for an instant, disappeared to find a musical album on 
which she much prided herself. 

“ Mary, I am right,” was the reply. “ If young ladies 
choose to play the coquette, it is but fair in us to pay them 
back in their own coin. How ungracious I should be to let 
all these graceful arts be wasted.” 

Miss Harcourt still looked disapproval, but further re- 
joinder was impossible ; for Isabel, flushed with conquest, had 
returned, more animated and engrossing than before. 


RED ROSE VILLA, AND IIS INHABITANTS. 191 

“ Of course you sing, Miss Morland 

“ No, Sir Sydney ; I abhor all pretension ; and as T knew I 
could never sing like a professor, I never attempted it.” 

“ Pardon me, but I think you are wrong. There can be 
no necessity for private performers to equal professors ; 
indeed, I would banish all Italian bravuras from private 
rooms.” 

“ You will think my brother a sad Goth, Miss Morland; 
but he prefers a simple English ballad to anything else.” 

“ I admire his taste ; but you surely do not think ballad- 
einging an easily-accomplished matter ?” 

“ Easy enough for any one with natural feeling,” replied 
Sir Sydney, somewhat hastily, “ and with boldness sufficient 
to express it. I would rather hear ‘ Go, forget me,’ as I 
have heard it, than the finest Italian scena by a prima 
donna.” 

“lam delighted. Sir Sydney, that we have it in our power 
to afford you that gratification,” energetically interposed M iss 
Wilhelm ina. The baronet made her a graceful bow, looking 
at his sister, however, with eyes that plainly said, “ Save me 
from this.” 

“ Laura !” (Sir Sydney actually started, but recovered 
himself so rapidly that the sudden flushing of his brow was 
unremarked even by Isabel.) “Dear me, where can the dear 
gtrl have hid herself? I assure you. Sir Sydney, though she 
sings very seldom, she is considered first-rate in English 
ballads,” and away gracefully glided Miss Wilhelmina in 
search of her. 

“ Who is this ^ dear girl,’ Miss Morland ? Can she really 
sing that song? I would rather she chose any other,” said 
Sir Sydney, in a tone almost of irritation. 

Isabel looked up with one of her most mischievous smiles, 
which recalled him instantly to his artificial self ; but before 
he could rally sufficiently to speak again. Miss Wilhelmina’s 
voice, in its most dulcet tones of encouragement, was close 
beside him. 

“ Come, Laura, my dear ; we are all friends, you know — no 
one to be afraid of. Sir Sydney is so particularly partial to 
‘ Go, forget me I am sure you will favour him.” 

“Or any other song the young lady likes. I would not 
be so arbitrary as to select for her,” he exclaimed, springing 
up, with gentlemanly politeness, to relieve Miss Wilhelmina 
of the music-book she carried, and, as he took it from her, 


192 


RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 


coming in close contact with the fair girl behind her, whom 
her flowing drapery had till then completely concealed. 

“Laura! Miss Gascoigne I Is it possible he articulated, 
in a tone which, though suppressed, must, to any perception 
less obtuse than the Misses Brown’s have betrayed intense 
emotion; but Miss Wilhelmina only read casual acquaintance 
ship, and supposed an introduction had taken place in the 
early part of the evening. Laura bowed. Sir Sydney thought, 
coldly, and quietly passed on to the piano. The song was 
selected and sung. She had often been heard before, but her 
voice had never seemed the same as at that moment. It 
might have been that what a baronet and his sister listened to 
with such interest, that the former had moved himself some 
distance from Miss Morland’s fascinations to look at and 
listen to the singer unobserved, must be of greater value than 
it had ever before been supposed, or that there really was 
some spell in the song which Laura had never been heard to 
sing before (Miss Wilhelmina seeing it amongst her music, 
had spoken on supposition merely) ; but it fell upon the most 
thoughtless, the most obtuse, with such unaccountable power, 
that even when the strain ceased the sudden and unusual hush 
continued, until rudely broken by Mr. Gustavus Brown and 
Mr. Gilbert Givevoice clapping their hands most vehemently, 
exciting an uproar of applause, under which Laura tried to 
make her escape; but she was prevented by the friendly 
advance of Miss Harcourt, who, with both hands extended, 
exclaimed, so as to be heard by all, “ Miss Gascoigne, will you 
permit me to thank you for your beautiful song and claim 
your acquaintance in the same breath? We have, in truth, 
never met before ; but if you knew me as well as I know you 
from report, we should be friends — nay, more, allies — already. 
You need not look so very terrified,” she added, with 
laughing earnestness ; “ I am not a very formidable person, 
though my want of ceremony may really be rather startling ; 
but I am so glad to have found you, that I must entreat Miss 
Brown’s kind permission to excuse me, if I do forget every- 
body but you for a little while.” 

Her ready tact met with the rejoinder she desired : she 
was entreated by all the sisters to make herself quite at 
home ; they were delighted she should know their dear Laura. 
The blue room was quite deserted, and they could chat there 
quite comfortably ; and to the blue room Miss Harcourt 
eagerly led her companion, who so trembled that she feared 


RED RO^ VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 193 

for the continuance of her composure. The door was not 
closed ; to do so would have occasioned remark ; but, as we 
said before, the room was so situated for its inmates to be 
completely retired from all observation. 

Isabel Morland was furious. She had seen Sir Sydney’s 
suppressed emotion, and, with the quickness of thought, 
connected that and IMiss Harcourt’s eager address with the 
floating rumours of Sir Sydney’s early life; but that her 
insignificant, unfashionable cousin could be the heroine of the 
tale, and retain such hold of his recollection as to drive all 
her present fascinations from his mind, was a degradation not 
to be passively endured ; in fact, it was impossible — she would 
not think about it — Sir Sydney should be caught yet ; but at 
present there certainly was little hope of it. He had 
deserted her, and was in earnest, if not agitated, conversation 
with Miss Lucretia and Miss Wilhelmina Brown, who were 
listening and answering, and then gradually entering into 
detail, with so much interest, that all superficial folly gave 
way, for the time, before the real goodness of heart which 
they in general so strenuously contrived to conceal. 

“Disagreeable, designing old women!”, Isabel thought, 
“what can he see in them to hold his attention so chained? 
He shall not listen any longer,” and she glided close to the 
sofa where the two were seated. Sir Sydney rose, and offered 
her his seat. No ; she would rather stand. Sir Sydney 
bowed, and quietly sat down again. Something seemed the 
matter with Isabel’s bracelet ; she clasped and unclasped it 
vehemently, but the movement did not disturb the earnest 
conversation which Sir Sydney, in a low voice, still continued 
The trinket broke, and fell at his feet. He gracefully raised 
and presented it, regretting the accident, and turned again to 
the Misses Brown. An exclamation of “What could have 
become of her beautiful bouquet ?” was the young lady’s next 
effort to recall the deserter to his allegiance ; but Sir Sydney 
did not even seem to hear it, or, if he did, before he could 
make a move to seek it, it was presented to her by the 
officious Gussy, with a most malicious bow. Isabel did not 
quite throw it at his head, as inclination prompted, but in a 
VC y few seconds every flower lay in fragments at her feet ; 
one' beautiful exotic fell, uninjured, so close to Miss Wil- 
lielmina, that she raised it with an expression of lamentation ; 
bat Isabel snatched it from her, and hastily stamped her 
pretty little foot upon it, with such a very unequivocal 


194 


RED ROSE VILLAj AND ITS INHABITANTS. 

expression of temper, that Sir Sydney almost unconsciously 
fixed an astonished gaze upon her. It was too much to be 
borne quietly ; she turned angrily away, sauntering through 
the rooms, deigning to hold converse with none, and would 
have so far sacrificed all propriety, as to enter the blue room 
to solve the mystery at once, had not 'Laura and Miss 
Uarcourt at that instant reappeared. The countenance ot 
the latter bore such evident traces of emotion, spite of the 
strong control she was practising, that Isabel was on the 
point of making some bitterly satirical remark, but those dark 
reproving eyes were again upon her, and Sir Sydney spoke 
before she did ; but it was to Laura, not to her. 

“ Has my sister pleaded in vain, or may I indeed claim an 
old friend — and forgiveness?” he added, speaking the last 
word in so low a tone as only to be heard by his sister, 
Laura and Isabel. Laura’s lip so quivered, that no word 
would come ; but her hand was unhesitatingly placed in that 
which Sir Sydney so eagerly extended, and her eyes met his. 
He drew her arm in his, and led her, to all appearance, so 
easily and naturally to a quadrille that was forming, that few 
suspected more than that they had been old friends ; and how 
strange it was they should meet there and then ; and, if 
he should talk to her, and make her sing twice again, during 
the short remainder of the evening, it was nothing re- 
markable ! 

Isabel had thrown herself moodily on one of the sofas in 
the blue room, half concealed by the curtains of the window, 
trying, in vain, to connect Sir Sydney’s conduct and the 
report of his former life. It seemed clear enough, but she 
would not believe it. There was nothing in his manner but 
old acquaintanceship : she would conquer him yet. How 
could Laura vie with her ? Alas, for the delusion ! Miss 
Harcourt’s shawl, by the provident care of Miss Angelica, 
had been brought to the blue room, and there, with Laura, 
she repaired ; the Misses Brown, in trio, assembled to do 
them great honour ; and Isabel remained wholly unperceivcd. 
After being well shawled. Miss Harcourt disappeared with 
her body-guard of Browns. Sir Sydney, who had come 
ostensibly to hurry her, lingered — 

‘‘ Laura ! my own beloved ! forgiven — ^loved through all ! 
How could I doubt — ^how could I make myself and j'ou so 
miserable? Can I ever repay you, even by a long life ot 
love ? If you but knew the remorse, the wretchedness I have 


RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 195 

endured, you would forgive still more,” were the somev/hat 
incoherent sentences that fell distinctly on Isabel’s ear; and, 
though tliere was no answer, no words, she could see Sir 
Sydney’s arm thrown round her cousin, and that she shrunk 
not from his parting kiss. Another moment, and both had 
disappeared ; Sir Sydney to take such farewell of the really 
worthy women who had befriended his Laura, that he left 
them in perfect raptures ; and Laura to fly to the security 
of her own room, where, burying her face in her hands, 
the tears burst forth like a torrent, giving relief, vent, calm 
to a heart which, though so sustained in grief, had been 
BO unused to joy, that its presence had well-nigh prevented its 
realization. 

Our readers must imagine all the various crosses and 
vexatious contretemps which had prevented Sir Sydney Ilar- 
court from discovering Laura, as he had so ardently desiied 
to do ; for ours is a mere sket<3h, not a tale. They must r«> 
collect he had, only the last six months, returned from the 
West Indies, a residence in which had entirely frustrated 
his wishes for a reconciliation, even by letter; for, as we have 
said before, Mrs. Gascoigne’s constant removals had prevented 
the possibility of any letter from such a distance finding them. 
When he had first loved her he was dependent on a coarse- 
minded, worldly relation, to whom an afifection for a poor girl 
dared not be breathed. He had sought an appointment 
abroad, to escape a matrimonial connection which was being 
forced upon him, and he had wished Laura to consent to a 
private marriage, and accompany him abroad as the com- 
panion of his sister, who preferred daring the miseries of the 
West Indies with her brother, to remaining in England with- 
out him. Sir Sydney (then plain Sydney Harcourt, with 
little hope of the baronetcy and independence for many 
years), naturally of a fiery and somewhat jealous temper, ma- 
terially increased from the privations and checks he was 
constantly enduring, chose to believe Laura’s calm, reasoning 
indifference, and her refusal to leave her ailing mother, only a 
cover to reject his affection for that of some richer love. Time, 
his sister’s representations, and the bitter pain of separation 
cooled these unjust suspicions, and he only recollected Laura’s 
look of suffering and tone of suppressed agony, with which she 
had bade him farewell. 

The unexpected demise of his relation, the baronetcy, and 
a moderate independency recalling him to England much 


!96 RED ROSE VILLA, AND ITS INHABITANTS. 

sooner than he had dreamed of, every effort was put in force 
to find Laura, hut in vain, till chance led him to Briarstone^ 
and some magnetic instinct urged him to accept an invitation 
which it was more in his nature to have travelled some miles 
to avoid. He always declared his belief in mesmeric influ- 
ences henceforward. 

Isabel’s schemes to prevent the course of true love from 
running smooth were fruitless. The old adage had already 
had its more than quantum of fulfilment, and Laura Gascoigne 
became Lady Harcourt before she was two months older. 
The delight and self-complacency of the Misses Brown were 
beyond description; Miss Lucretia looked grander, Miss 
Wilhelmina more gracious, and Miss Angelica more bustling 
than ever. An accession of pupils and boarders was almost 
the immediate conse(iuence of Laura’s marriage, and the fair 
fame of Red Rose Villa was so well established, as fortunately 
to receive no diminution from an affair which so scandalized 
Miss Brown, that she herself could not rally from it for 
months. After alternately encouraging Mr. Gustavus Brown 
and Mr. Gilbert Givevoice, till each gentleman so believed 
himself the favoured individual as to be ready to call hi& lival 
out, if he dared to deny it, Isabel Morland, one fine summer 
morning, eloped with an Italian emigrant count, who, much 
against Miss Brown’s ideas of propriety, she would have to 
teach her Italian, leaving both lovers in the somewhat disa- 
greeable predicament of having been most egregiously de- 
ceived and laughed at, at the very moment they were antici- 
pating the gold^ far more than the hand, of an heiress ; and as 
such was the origin of their dreams and the source of their 
disappointfnent, we can better forgive Isabel’s conduct to them, 
than we can her conduct to herself Alas, indeed, for those 
whom ^^ature has so gifted, and over whom principle has no 
S77Ay ! 


dfltijalto’s ia»g|[ter. 


I. 

‘‘Constance, my child ! take comfort ; all is not lc?t to thee, 
though I must leave thee sooner than I expected,” were the 
almost inarticulate words of a dying warrior, as, supported in 
the arms of an attendant, he bent over a beautiful girl who 
had flung herself on her knees beside his rude pallet, burying 
her face in his hand in all the abandonment of grief. It was 
a low-roofed, rudely-furnished chamber in the olden castle of 
Ruvo, supporting on its panelled walls and divisions of the 
ceiling many specimens of the warlike implements of the 
time. Shields of massive workmanship, with the overhanging 
helmet, the long sword, and misericorde or dagger, interspers- 
ed with spears and iron caps, were suspended on all sides ; 
while jars and flasks, a bugle horn, an unsheathed sword and 
belt, and such like gear, were scattered on the floor. The 
dying man was stretched on the only couch the room afford- 
ed ; a wooden pallet serving alike for bed and chair, one part 
of wliicl was occupied by two of the warrior’s men-at-arms, 
their eyes fixed alternately on their beloved commander and 
the fair being on whom his last thoughts seemed centred. On 
their left stood two venerable monks ; the one holding aloft 
the cross, the other bearing on a silver salver the consecrated 
bread and wine, which the warrior had received in lowly faith, 
convinced his last moment was at hand. Two other armed 
figures, sturdy cavaliers, finished the group. Individual 
sorrow was deepened by the thought, that with Duke Manfred 
died the last lingering hopes of Naples. He had refused to 
follow his brother, the voluntarily-exiled monarch Frederic, 
to the court of France, hoping still to preserve his ill-fated 
country from being trampled on, even if its liberty were gone ; 
struggling against Spain, and her great captain, simply be- 
cause he thought France less likely to look on Naples as a 
slave, though for him individually life had lost all joy — for he 
felt his country would never again rise, beautiful and free, as 


198 


GONZALVO^S DAUGHTER. 


she had been. Mortally wounded in an unexpected skirrnwh 
with the Spaniards, Manfred would yet have met death calmly, 
if not willingly, had not the deep grief of the fair girl, who 
had clung to him as to a second father — preferring to linger 
by his side in the roughest part of Naples, to accompanying 
her own royal parent to the luxurious court of Louis — dis- 
tracted him to the forgetfulness of all, save how to comfort her. 
lie knew it was no small loss she mourned; — the young, im- 
poverished, yet noble Luigi Vincenzio, to whcm the first fresh- 
ness of her young affections had been given, with all the fervid 
warmth of an Italian heart, was dear to Manfred as his own 
eon, and he had promised to plead for Vincenzio with her 
father, in lieu of the gay Duke de Nemours, whom Frederic 
favoured, but whom Constance instinctively abhorred. No 
marvel the words of the dying man fell vainly and discord- 
antly upon her ear, — that she clung to him as if that wild 
embrace should fetter life within ; — he should not, must not 
leave her ! Fainter and fainter became the voice of Manfred, 
— and then all was silent, save the convulsive sobs of the 
kneeling girl, whose tears had so bedewed the rough hand she 
clasped that she knew not how cold it grew, and the deep yet 
suppressed breathings of those around. A quick step made 
its way through the groups of mourning Neapolitans, who 
thronged the chamber, and a tall manly form stood reveren- 
tially and mournfully beside the pallet. 

“ Alas ! alas ! too late, — he has gone ! his look, his voice 
of kindly blessing — all denied me ! Constance ! my be- 
loved !” 

The voice aroused her ; she started to her feet, looked 
shudderingly on the face of the dead, and then sinking in the 
arms of V incenzi.:, wept less painfully upon his bosom. But, 
brief as was that upward glance, it displayed a face so youth- 
ful, and of such touching loveliness, that tears should have 
been strangers there ; childlike as it was, yet there was some- 
thing in its sweet expression which told the threshold of life 
was past ; she had looked beyond, and tasted the magic 
draught whose fiist drop transforms the being, and influences 
the whole of after life. Her rich golden hair hung loose and 
dishevelled over her pale cheek, and her deep blue beautifully- 
formed eye was swollen with weeping, yet she was lovely de- 
spite of all. 

But short communion was allov'ed the youthful pair, for 
rhe last wish of the dying warrior had been that his niece 


GONZALVO’S DAUGHTER. 


199 


fibould seek the convent of St. Alice, twenty miles distant 
there to remain till happier hours dawned for Naples, or she 
could more securely rejoin her father. 

Yes, better there than lingering here, where Nemours 
may deem himself privileged to seek thee when he lists,” re- 
sumed the young Neapolitan, when his words of gentle sooth- 
ing had had effect, and Constance was comforted. “ Sweetest ! 
it shall be but a very brief farewell ; the thought that thou 
art in safety shall soothe the hours of absence, and thou wilt 
promise to think of me — my own !” 

“ Think of thee !” she repeated, and a smile lit up that 
sweet face, till to say in which it looked more lovely, smiles 
or tears, would have been difficult. “ There is no need to 
make me promise that, my Luigi; I could not, if I would, think 
of aught other, save” (her voice faltered) “ of the kind heart 
gone !” She paused a moment, then added, sorrowfully, ‘‘ My 
lather, my poor father ! I should wish to join him — yet I 
cannot. Luigi, dearest Luigi, ’tis my turn to chide now, if 
thou lookest doubtingly and sad ; our best friend has gone ! 
Oh, we cannot weep too long for him ! yet, canst thou think if 
Frederic knew whom his Constance loved he would still deny 
her % No ! no ! smile on me, love, and trust me, Constance of 
Naples will have none other lord but thee.” 

He did trust her ; and the brief period left them passed 
in such sweet and hopeful converse, that sorrow itself was 
soothed, and both were strengthened for the parting hour. 

Luigi himself headed the gallant little troop of native 
warriors, collected to convey her with all honour to the con- 
vent. He dreaded that Nemours, obtaining notice of the in- 
tended movement, would attempt the capture of the princess 
by force, and otherwise annoy them ; but to his surprise not a 
trace of the French army awaited them. 

Quartered as they were almost all over Calabria, generally 
presenting their steel fronts as strong lines of defence for the 
towns and castles round, this desertion appeared extraordi- 
nary ; particularly as their aim had been to incapacitate the 
Spaniards from leaving their entrenchments within the forti- 
fied city of Barletta, twelve miles to the south of Ruvo, where 
they were at present quartered. 

Night was falling when Vincenzio returned to Ruvo ; but 
there was still light enough for him to distinguish more than 
usual military bustle within the walls ; soldiers were hurrying 
to and fro ; arms were burnishing j lances and swords sharpen 


200 


GONZALVO’S DAUGHTER. 


ing; large fires blazing up; bands of armed men assembling, 
the heavy harness and unsheathed weapons forming in heaps 
and lines to be donned and grasped at a moment’s warning. 
Anxious and curious. Vincenzio hastened to the quarters of the 
Sire de La Palice, governor of the town, and found him, 
though joyous and laughter-loving as was his wont, alternately 
giving orders to several officers, who seemed to appear and 
disappear with a glance, and muttering oaths and execrations 
on some extraordinary act of folly, the nature of which, or by 
whom committed, Luigi found some difficulty in comprehend- 

ing- 

Our limits will not permit our becoming personally ac-. 
quainted with La Palice, which a conversation might accom- 
pl'sh. We must confine ourselves to a brief relation of his- 
torical facts. It appeared that the inhabitants of Castellanata, 
enraged beyond all measure at the licentious a>id insulting 
conduct of the French troops quartered in their vicinity, had 
risen in sudden revolt, and finally betrayed the town into the 
hands of the Spaniards. Nemours, thinking more of his own 
dignity, which he imagined had been outraged in this revolt, 
than of the real interests of his sovereign, swore the most sig- 
nal vengeance, and marched his whole force northward, disre- 
garding the representations of more experienced officers, that 
it would be the height of folly to leave all Calabria unguard- 
ed, for the reduction of one paltry town. The character of 
Gonzalvo was too well known to admit a thought of his neg- 
lecting this opportunity of attack ; and La Palice therefore, 
on h’s part, determined to be on the alert, though he guessed 
not how soon or whence the attack would come. 

There were many sad thoughts on the young Neapolitan’s 
heart, as he returned to his own chamber. Alas ! it l.ttle sig- 
nified to Naples who were her masters, French or Spaniards ; 
but he recalled that period of his country’s brief prosperity, 
when the celebrated Captain Gonzalvo had been his monarch’s 
guest and honoured friend, and grieved that Frederic had 
chosen France, instead of Spain, for refuge ; perhaps his in- 
stinctive hatred to Nemours, as the encouraged a.spirant to 
the hand of his Constance, increased these regrets ; but still 
to La Palice he was bound by all the chivalric ties of mili- 
tary compai ionship, and he determined, if danger threatened, 
to toiget his nationality awhile, and fight in his friend’s de- 
fence. 

The night was peculiarly mild and lovely ; and the soft 


GONZALVO’S DAUGHTER. 


201 


silvery halo flung down from the full moon on the clustering 
olives and vineyards, stretching beneath the young Italian’s 
window, over some miles of fertile country, seemed to whisper 
tranquillity and peace, that war had not yet disturbed ; and 
Luigi looked forth lingeringly till the calm sank into his'own 
soul, and Constance alone stood forth amid those troubled vi- 
sions like a star gleaming through clouds on the trembling 
waves. 

It was .near dayV^ak ere he sought his couch and slept ; 
but not for long. One pale streak of dawn alone was visible; 
but there were sounds on the still air little in accordance with 
the lingering night. A du'l, heavy, monotonous roar, as of a 
continued cannonade close at hand, was accompanied by sharp, 
vivid flashes of light playing athwart the casement ; then fol- 
lowed the roll of many drums — the shout ‘to arms,” — '‘the 
foe ! the foe !” — the clash of the alarum bell — the heavy tramp- 
ling of a hundred feet — the shrill shrieks of woman’s terror, 
and other sounds of tumult and war. Vincenzio listened a mo- 
ment as one still dreaming but then La Palice’s warning flash- 
ing on his mind, he sprang to his feet and glanced beneath 
him. Far, far as his eye could reach, trampling down that 
fair scene of fertility and peace, there came band after band 
of armed men, rolling onward in such dense masses, that he 
felt at a glance resistance was in vain. Marvellous as it seemed, 
Gonzalvo de Cordova himself was upon them ; and that name in 
its mighty eloquence was paralysing terror ! A very brief in- 
terval sufficed to banish every thought from Luigi’s mind but 
fears for La Palice, by whose side he speedily was. The noise 
waxed louder, closer, but there was no trace of disturbance, or 
even anxiety, on the governor’s open brow, as he gaily mar- 
shalled his little band of three hundred 1 inces, to throw them- 
selves into the first breach which Gonzalvo’s unceasing can- 
nonade was rapidly making in the walls. 

“ Ila ! welcome, comrade mine !” he cried, grasping Vin- 
cenzio’s hand. Mark La Palice as a true prophet, and Ne- 
mours the most egregious blockhead that ever wrote himself a 
man. Ha ! all compact there ; ready ! that’s well — to the right, 
forward !” and on they rushed through the town. Already 
every wall was manned, and showers of arrows and stones galled 
the Spaniards at every turn, but had no power on the immense 
mass at work agaiUst the ramparts. Already the walls were 
tottering, falling, borne down by the heavy cannonade. On 
the opposite side the walls had been scaled, and Spanish and 


£02 


GONZALVO S DAUGHTER. 


French fought hand to hand on the summit, A yell of tri* 
uraph soon after proclaimed the formation of an immense 
breach, into which Gonzalvo himself and his choicest troops 
poured like a mountain torrent, increasing, swelling, as it 
came, as if utterly to overwhelm the compact little phalanx 
which La Palice threw forward to oppose him. A very brief 
struggle sufficed to show how fruitless was every effort of the 
French ; the immense odds speedily forced the breach ; but 
still, hemmed in on all sides so closely that their swords had 
scarcely room for full play, there was no word of surrender nr 
defeat ; struggling only to preserve their honour in their 
death, man after man fell, without yielding an inch, around his 
leader. Presently wilder and more deafening sounds arose ; 
mingling indiscriminately the roar of artillery, the clang of 
jteel, the rush of a hundred chargers, the shrill shrieks of 
romen, so that not one could be distinguished from another. 
The town was forced, and every street, for a brief interval, 
became the scene of combat. Another hour, and the strife 
was at an end. La Palice. who had striven as if his indivi- 
dual efforts could avert defeat, had been overwhelmed with 
numbers, and brought to the ground with the crushing blow 
of a battle-axe ; yet even then, with his own gay laugh, he 
flung his sword over the heads of his captors, that none should 
claim him as an individual prize. Vincenzio shared his fate, 
the capture of his friend removing from him all inclination to 
prolong the fruitless combat, and yet more exasperate the 
Spaniards against his ill-fated countrymen. 

The close of that day beheld Ruvo deserted; the heavy 
banner of Spain waving above the ruined ramparts alone 
marked what had been ; for the riches of Ruvo, — gold, trea- 
sure, horses and arms, the French prisoners, almost all of whom 
were badly wounded, and the principal Neapolitan citizens, 
were conveyed under strong detachments to Barletta, the 
head-quarters of the great captain and his troops. 

II. 

Twenty-four hours after his daring reduction of Ruvo, 
Gonzalvo de Cordova was seated in one of the best furnished 
apartments of Barletta, bearing little traces either of the 
eager warrior or sagacious general ; all other emotions merged 
in that one which, even in his glorious campaigns, reigned up 


GONZALVO’S DAUGHTER. 


203 


permost — love for the lovely, the transcendent being, who, in 
woman’s freshest, most beautiful prime, was seated at his feet, 
her arm reclining caressingly on his knee, and her dark, splen- 
did orbs, all their flashing passion stilled in filial love, fixed on 
his face as he narrated his last triumph. It was his daughter 
Elvira, for whom so deep was the hero’s love, that even in his 
foreign wars she was never known to be parted from his side. 

“ Trust me, they shall be seen to, my father,” she said, in 
answer to his entreaty that her woman’s tenderness and care 
would look to the comfort of his wounded prisoners, whom he 
had already luxuriously installed, with his own surgeon to at- 
tend them. “ La Palice is in truth a champion to gain guer- 
don of woman’s care.” 

“ But not of woman’s heart, my gentle one ; thine must 
not pass to the wardance of our foes.” 

^'Nor shall it, father ; it is thine, all thine !” and the rich 
burning flush resting on her cheek as she spoke, was deemed 
by her father but the glow of sunset which played around her. 
He kissed her fondly, vowing he would accept such devoted- 
ness cnly till another and a dearer sought it. “ Find but one 
deserving of thy love, my child, and no selfish pangs shall bid 
me keep thee by my side ; yet, methinks, thou as myself art 
difficult to please ; the noblest and the best have bowed to thee 
in vain, — thy heart was ice to all, and selfish as I am, I have 
rejoiced it was so.” 

Her face was buried in his hand, and he saw not how pain- 
fully its colour varied. He did not feel the full quick throb 
of that maiden heart : if her fond father penetrated not its 
secret, how may we? 

In obedience to Gonzalvo’s command (in those days no 
strange one), Elvira, attended by her women, herself visited 
the apartments of the wounded prisoners, administered to 
their wants, superintended the healing of their wounds, speak- 
ing words of comfort and of hope, till — veiled as she was, her 
rank, even her name often unknown — the sound of her voice, 
the touch of her gentle hand, were hailed by each sulFerer 
with such feelings of devotion and gratitude, as might have 
marked her indeed the angel visitant their fevered fancies 
deemed her 

“And I have seen all? — thou art sure none other needs 
my tending ?” she asked of an attendant. “ Methinks those 
rooms we have not visited.” 

“ There are no prisoners of moment there, lady ; but on« 


204 


GONZALVO’S LAUGHTER. 


room tenanted; — a poor Italian — Neapolitan, I should saY— 
who. as he may bring little honour and less ransom to ou/ 
leader’s coffers, scarce needs your gracious care ; he will do 
well enough.” 

“Peace, slave! it is well Gonzalvo hears you not;” he 
crouched beneath her flashing scorn, “ Poor — friendless ; the 
more he needs his captor’s care • lead on !” 

She was obeyed, and the apartment gained. A young man 
was reclining on a rude couch — his limbs stretched out, his 
head bent forward, resting on his arm in all the abandonment 
of complete repose ; his long jetty hair had fallen as partly 
to shade his face, but there was just enough visible of his 
cheek and brow to startle by their ghastly whiteness, gleam- 
ing out in fearful contrast with the crimson cloak he had 
drawn around him. The opening of the door had not aroused 
him. and a moment the intruders paused ; there was a start, a 
quick and choking breath, as if respiration had been sudden- 
ly impeded ; and the Lady Elvira .stood beside the sluinberer, 
and lifted the damp curls from his brow. Why did she so 
pause, so stand, pale, rigid, breathless ? — feared she to break 
those peaceful slumbers? — if so. her caution w'as in vain: 
the young man started, looked wildly round, then heavily and 
painfully arose, as if conscious he was in the presence of rank 
and beauty, and struggled to give them homage. 

“Nay, fair sir, we come to thee as leech, not queen, and 
must refuse all homage but obedience,” the lady said, calmly. 
“ We mus' condemn thee to thy couch, not to thy knee.” 

“Who is it that speaks? Lady, that voice comes to my 
ear laden with happy memories, bringing a vision of ono 
whose faintest smile was chivalry’s best fame — aye, e’en to 
Naple’s sons.” 

“ And is it marvel. Signor Vincenzio, the daughter of Gon* 
zalvo should be with her father still, though Naples no longer 
calls him friend? Nay, we have refused thine homage, as 
little suited to thy weakness, gentle sir. Resign thee for a 
brief while to the leech’s art, and take comfort ; Gonzalvo 
wars with France, not Naples. We will visit thee again.” 

Luigi Vincenzio rose from his knee, where he had sunk 
simply in greeting to one whose resplendent gifts in happier 
days had excited bis young imagination in no ordinary degree , 
and the calm unimpassioued posture in which he stood till 
she departed, betra^’cd no warmer feelings than reverence and 
admiration. Days passed, merging into weeks ; but lorg be- 


GONZALVO’S DAUGHTER. 


205 


f?ro tliat period, Luigi Viucenzio was uot only convales(;ent5 
but permitted and enabled to roam at large about Barletta 
and its environs; unguarded, even by his parole. Whence 
came this extraordinary indulgence none knew ; but all sup- 
posed, that as the great captain had repeatedly declared he 
warred not with the Neapolitans — not at least with those who 
chose to accept his friendship, and own the supremacy of his 
sovereigns, Ferdinand and Isabella — the young nobleman had 
accepted these conditions, and had been thus received into 
favour. Again, as had been ihe case before the capture of 
Iluvo, chivalric games agreeably diversified the dull routine 
of military duty. Nemours, overcome with shame, at the con- 
sequences of his own folly, had retired to Canosa ; and as 
Gonzalvo had not received the expected reinforcements, en- 
abling him to change his mode of attack to the offensive, his 
oflScers. and many of the Neapolitans friendly to his interests, 
entered with spirit into all their general’s plans for military 
recreation, while the Lady Elvira resumed her station, as (jueen 
of the revels, crowning the victor with her own fair hands. 
Her influence had led Vincenzio there ; she rallied him on 
his deep gloom, playfully demanding why he alone should 
scorn the prize she gave ; he had professed such deep gratitude 
for the tender care she had so silently lavished on his suffer- 
ings, soothing him by the charm of her voice to health, more 
powerfully than the leech’s art, and yet he refused such trifling 
boon. And he obeyed ; he joined the combatants, received 
bright wreaths of glory from her hand, and lingered by her 
side, but the smile she sought was not upon his lips ; her step, 
her voice, however unexpected, had no power to flush his cheek, 
or light his eye with joy ; but his to her ! — the echo of hit 
footstep, the faintest whisper of his voice, as the smouldering 
fire in the bosom of the volcano, seeming so still, so silent, till 
roused to whelming might, they lay upon her heart. 

Fiercely and terribly the thunder-cloud of wrath had 
gathered on the brow of Gonzalvo de Cordova, as with heavy 
strides he paced his private cabinet about a month after Ruvo’s 
capture. Ho chafed not at fair and open fight, nay. gloried 
in the heat, the toil, the press of war ; but conspiracy, treachery, 
or that which in the present excited state of his mind he 
deemed as such, he could not brook. A plot had been dis- 
covered —ill formed, ill digested, but if correct in its details, 
in the names of its principals, involving many of those whom 
Gronzalvo had treated and trusted as friends — amid the Ncapo* 


206 


GONZALVO’S DAUGHTER. 


litaus to throw off the- yoke of the Spauiards, to be free, and 
preserve their liberty at the swora’s point, till seconded by 
other cities, and encouraged by Nemours’ inactivity, Frederic 
himself might be recalled ; this seemed their object, pledged 
to by the most solemn oaths. Gonzalvo’s pame was found 
upon their lists of victims, but all was dark and little tangible. 
Still warrants had been issued ; those supposed the principal 
conspirators arrested and secured ; and the great captain now 
chafed and fumed, unwilling to believe the whole tale true, 
from the heavy judgment it demanded, yet feeling to the full 
the tremendous responsibility devolved upon himself 

“ My father ! God in heaven ! the tale is not false, then — 
yet — yet, they have dared to connect the innocent ! Luigi — 
Yincenzio — he is not, he cannot be, of these ! speak — speak, 
in mercy I” and the proud, the majestic daughter of Spain 
whom it had seemed no human power, no human emotion could 
bow, sunk in powerless agony on the earth, grasping the robe 
of her father, and gazing on his face, as if her life depended 
on his answer. Startled, amazed, Gonzalvo, who had been 
unconscious that for several minutes she had been in his pre- 
sence reading his brow, ere she found words, vainly sought to 
raise and soothe her ; she reiterated but those words, her tone 
becoming wilder and shriller in its agony, as the reply was 
evidently evaded. 

“ Aye, even he !” at length it came, and Gonzalvo sternly 
pointed to the young nobleman’s name upon the list. “ Elvi- 
ra, Gonzalvo’s daughter ! away with this engrossing weakness ; 
well it is for thee, none but thy father marks it. I have heard, 
and in return for that kind confidence would, had the fates 
decreed, have sought, fixed, gloried in thy happiness, though 
the choice had been other than mine own ; but now — with this 
damning proof My child ! my child ! away with the unworthy 
weakness ; it shall not so debase thee !” 

“Weak ! debased ! who dares to say these words to me — 
to me ? Am I not still Elvira ? she sprang to her feet, stand- 
ing erect in all her majesty, but with cheeks of marble white- 
ness, gleaming out from that night-black hair, as if their rich 
current had rushed back to her heart. “ What is it they said 
— that he was guilty? — ^false ! ’tis false ! yet if ’tis not — misled 
— misguided — father, is there no pardon? — there must — there 
SHALL be. What is his doom? speak! there is no weakness 
now I” 

“Death, or the galleys! — what else befits the ingrate 


GONZALVO’S DAUGHTER. 


207 


traitors?” in a deep concentrated voice the answer came 
“ Ha ! Holy Virgin ! my child ! my child !” She had tottered 
— fallen — and lay without voice or motion at his feet. 


III. 

Luigi Yincenzio denied none of the charges brought against 
him, save that of the intended murder of the principal Span- 
iards in Italy. Such baseness he strenuously denied ; they 
had decoyed him into the conspiracy, working on all his peculiar 
feelings of love of land and of his exiled king ; who was not 
alone regally but personally dear to him. The conspiracy 
appeared to him but a noble effort of some few bold hearts to 
throw off the hated yoke of the foreigner ; and therefore he 
had joined it, and even now, in danger of death, of worse than 
death — the galleys, he persisted in the glory, the virtue of his 
cause. It was rumoured that Gonzalvo, in his still continued 
desire to conciliate the Neapolitan nobles had offered to Vin- 
cenzio, not alone pardon but riches, and connection by marriage 
with one of the most powerful and noble families of Castile, 
though its name never transpired, if he would take a solemn 
oath to be true to the interests of Ferdinand of Arragon, and 
never seek Naples again, save in pursuance of that monarch’s 
interests ; and these offers, more than usually magnanimous 
even for Gronzalvo, were, to the utter bewilderment of all, 
refused. 

Scarcely a week after Yincenzio’s arrest, the unusually 
strict retirement of the Lady Elvira was disturbed by an 
earnest petition for a private interview, on the part of a Neapo- 
litan boy, who, the attendant said, had been so urgent, and 
appeared so exhausted, that he could not refuse him entrance. 
He would not tell his business to any save the Lady Elvira. 
Permission was given, and he was conducted to her presence, 
clothed in a coarse folding cloak of Neapolitan cloth, with the 
red picturesque cap of the country slouched upon his brow. 
He stood at the threshold of the apartment, his arms folded 
in his mantle, his hand bent on his breast, as if either physical 
or mental strength had for the moment utterly failed him. 
‘‘ lletire,” was the first word that met his ear ; and he perceiv- 
ed that Lady Elvira addressed her attendants, who still linger- 
ed. “ Retire, all of you. The boy asked a private audience, 
and I have promised it. Treachery ! danger ! — I fear them 


208 


GONZALVO S DAUGHTER. 


not ! — begone !” and they obeyed. One searching glance tl*« 
boy cast around, and ere the lady could address liiin, he had 
darted across the room, and flung himself at her feet, clasping 
her knees with the convulsive grasp of agony, struggling for 
words, but so ineftectually that nought but quivering anguish 
convulsed those parched lips, nought but agonized sobs found 
v^ent Mantle and cap had both fallen in the quickness of the 
movement, and though the inner dress was still the boy’s, that 
exquisite face, that swelling bosom told a different tale. 

•• Ha ! who art thou? What wouldst thou?.— speak, silly 
trembler,” and even at the moment that an indescribable thrill 
passed through the heart of Gronzalvo’s daughter, she struggled 
to speak playfully. “ In sooth, thou art too lovely to wander 
forth alone, save in this strange guise ; speak — what is thy 
boon ? 

“ A life ! a life the}" say is forfeited ! Lady, kind, gener- 
ous lady, oh, have mercy ! I thought I had words to plead 
his cause, to beseech, implore, adjure thee, but I have none — • 
none ! — Mercy, oh, have mercy !” 

“ Mercy ! I am no sovereign to give life or death, poor 
child ! How may I serve thee, and whom is it thou wouldst 
save ?” 

“ Art thou not Elvira? — art thou not Gonzalvo’s daughter ? 
— and will he not pardon at thy word? Oh. seek him ! . Tell 
him Constance, princess of Naples, is in his power ! yields 
herself his prisoner, to be dealt with as he lists, let him but 
spare Luigi — Luigi, my own noble love! Give him but par- 
don, life, liberty I Lady, lady I plead for him I let them hold 
me prisoner in his stead. Wherefore lookest thou thus? 
Mercy, oh, have mercy — save him I” 

“ W HOM saidst thou, girl ? W hom wouldst thou save ? — 
speak, I command thee !” exclaimed Elvira, in a voice so 
changed, so unnatural, that Constance shuddered, vainly en- 
deavouring to shrink from the heavy hand that grasped her 
shoulders, the eyes that flashed upon her, as if fire had dwelt 
within their depths. “ As thou hopest for mercy, speak !” 

“ Save I whom but my own, my plighted lord I Is there 
one in the wide world to love me now as Luigi — Luigi Vin- 
cenzio, he who hath honoured Constance with his troth ? Oh, 
save — ” 

“ Love I thou BAREST not tell me that he loves thee ! — 
false — false — he does not love thee I” She sprang up, cheek, 
lip, brow, flushing for a single instant crimson, then fading 


GONZALVO'S DAUGHTER. 


209 


into a white so ghastly, it seemed as if life itself must have 
passed, save for the mighty passion which held it chained. 

“ Thee ! one like thee, poor foolish child ! art thou one to 
bid Luigi Vincenzio love, to hold his heart enchained? Yet 
thou art lovely, good God of Heaven, how exquisitely lovely ! 
Poor child, poor child, I have appalled thee ! — does he so love 
thee?” She had sunk back on the cushion, her hands con- 
vulsively pressed together, as to conceal their trembling, but 
the wild light of those eyes, now still movelessly fixed on Con- 
stance, who had risen from that posture of entreaty, as if the 
deep emotion of another had stilled her into composure. 

“ Love me ! yes, as none but Luigi can love ; daughter of 
a ruined, a persecuted house, with little to make me worthy of 
such love, yet doth he love me, as I in truth were all in all 
to him, as he is all to me — love me ! Oh ! did they bid me die, 
or wander forth an exile, an outcast, like all of my race, yet 
queens might envy Constance for Luigi Vincenzio’s love !” 

“ And thou wouldst save him ?” 

“ Aye, with my life — with all that they may deem pre- 
cious. Constance of Naples is no common prize; ’tis said, 
Ferdinand would give a jewel from his coronet for all of Fre 
deric’s unhappy offspring placed within his power ; I am here ; 
bid Gonzalvo send me a state prisoner, as he so nobly did my 
brother. Ha ! lady, noble lady, forgive the word ; ’tis not for 
the captive, the suppliant, to arraign the captor and the judge. 
Grief makes the speech unwary -^eed it not, heed it not ; 
take my life, my liberty for his !” 

“ Constance of Naples, thou mayst save both ! Gonzalvo 
wars not with women !” The princess threw herself at her 
feet, with a wild cry of gratitude : the strangeness of that 
voice, the rigid expression of that face, she heeded not, knew 
not, she only dreamed of hope. 

‘‘ Aye, but I have not said how^ girl ; pardon, life, liberty, 
all have been offered to him for whom thou pleadest, on the 
sole condition of swearing allegiance to Ferdinand, fealty to 
Spain.” 

“ And he hath refused,” she interrupted ; oh ! give me 
entrance to him — I will plead, kneel, move not from his feet 
till he hath done this ; he will submit for me, he will hear me, 
live for Constance — let me but plead.” 

Peace ! there is more ; he must be naturalized in Spain, 
WED one of her noblest daughters, aye, one that loves him ; 
‘et him do this, and he shall have life, riches, honour, all that 


210 


GONZALVO’S DAUGHTER. 


can make life glad. Ha ! dost thou fail ? bid him do this, and 
he shall live.” 

“ Yes, even this !” was the reply, after one single moment’s 
pause ; and the quivering lip, the ashy cheek, the trembling 
frame, alone betrayed that young heart’s agony. “ Let Luigi 
Vincenzio be free, be happy — for if she whom he must wed in 
truth thus love him, the dream of his youth will fade beneath 
the glory of his manhood, and he shall he must be blessed — • 
if such things be, what recks it that Constance droops alone ? 
I shall have saved him, have given him back to life, to his fel- 
lows, to honour, to glory, and my death will be happy, oh ! so 
happy ! Lady, I will do this.” 

Heath ! who spoke of death for thee ? bid Luigi thus ac- 
cept his life, and thine is secured, is free.” 

Free ! speakest thou of love, yet dreamest thou life could 
exist apart from him — peace, peace — let me but save him, let 
him but live, give me but admission to his presence, let me 
but speak with him. Lady, lady, wherefore tarry % I will do 
this, take me but to him.” 

“Thou wilt SWEAR?” That low terrible whisper was a 
more fearful index of passionate agony in the speaker than 
even that which crushed her who stood in such meek, mourn- 
ful, yet heroic suffering before her : one only feeling prompted 
Constance, but in Elvira it was the fierce contest of the evil 
and the good ; one whelming passion struggling for dominion 
over all that had been so fair, so bright, so beautiful before. 

“ Swear to sacrifice my all of selfish bliss for him ? aye, 
without one moment’s pause ! Oh ! lady, thou knowest not 
love, if thou deemest it needs oath to hallow that which I have 
said. If thou doubtest me, bid one thou mayst trust, be 
witness of my truth ; but oh ! keep me no longer from him ; 
let me save his life !” 

Without a word or notice in reply, the Lady Elvira sat a 
moment in deep thought, then rose, and signed to the princess 
A) follow her. 


IV. 

The prison of Luigi Vincenzio had been changed from the 
dark loathsome dungeon, in which he had first been cast, to a 
low-roofed, rambling apartment, in that wing of the citadel of 
Barletta which generally served as a barrack for infantry. 


GONZALVO’S DAUGHTER, 


211 


An iron grating, however, running in the centre from roof to 
floor, cut the chamber in two, one portion generally serving as 
a guardroom, when any important prisoner demanded unusual 
care. This annoyance had been spared Vincenzio ; although 
the evening following the interview above described about ten 
soldiers were then assembled, occupying the farthest corner of 
the chamber, grouped in a circle enjoying their pipes and cups, 
seasoned by many a jest, which efi‘ectually turned their atten- 
tion alike from their own officer and their prisoner. The 
former, closely muffled in a military cloak, and cap, with a 
heavy plume of black feathers, stood leaning against the stone 
pillar to which the grating was affixed by thick iron rings, 
parted only by that open railing from the prisoner, and conse- 
quently enabled not alone to hear all that passed between him 
and the lovely being whom he was holding convulsively to his 
breast, but to mark every change in the countenance of each. 

What had already passed between those loving ones it is 
needless to record ; nor the deep suffocating emotion which 
had for several minutes utterly deprived Vincenzio of voice, 
when his Constance so strangely, so unexpectedly sprang into 
his arms. What cared he now that his guards were present ; 
that she was not permitted to see him alone, save to smile at 
Gronzalvo’s idle fear that she could bring him means to escape? 
He felt nothing but her presence, drinking in for the first few 
moments the sweet faint accents of her beloved voice, as if 
nothing of ill or misery could touch him more. But soon, 
oh ! how much too soon, the sweet dream fled, and but one 
truth remained — that he was doomed to death, to close his 
eyes on that beloved one, and for ever ! A shudder had con- 
vulsed his frame, a deep groan had been wrung from him by 
that thought, and Constance had heard and guessed its im- 
port. She knew not at first what she said, but one thought, 
one feeling, one stern necessity was distinct upon her mind ; 
all else was confused and painful, as if a dark cloud had folded 
up her brain, leaving nought clear but the letters of fire in 
which that one stern necessity was written. 

“And dost thou indeed, in very deed, so love me, Luigi ? 
Oh ! then thou wilt grant my boon ; thou wilt not let thy 
Constance plead to thee in vain,” said she, after many, many 
minutes had rolled by, unheeded in that sad commune, and 
she lifted up her pale and mournful face, as the white rose 
that, bent by some heavy storm, droops its lovely head to 
earth, ere one leaf had lost its freshness. 

10 


«12 


GONZALVO’S DAUGHTER. 


“ Boon — in vain. Constance, mine own sweet love, is tlieri 
auglit thou canst ask Luigi will deny 

Ah ! thou knowest not the weight of that I crave ; nor 
will I speak it on thy simple word. Thou, must pledge it me, 
my Icve ; aye, by solemn oath — by hallowed vow — I claim it 
on thy love, thy fealty, and how mayst thou refuse me 

Playfully he besought her to speak it first, and then, 
dreaming not her object, unconscious even that the offered 
conditions were known to her, he knelt at her feet, and placing 
his hands between both hers, which felt strangely and fear- 
fully cold, he solemnly swore to do her bidding, whatever it 
might be. The words were said, and Constance sank upon 
his bosom. 

“ Saved ! saved ! oh, I have saved thee, Luigi ; thou wilt 
live — be free — thou shalt not die !” 

He started to his feet ; the whole truth bursting on his 
mind, and yet, if so, why did she so cling to him, as if he were 
spared to ker ? no, no, it could not be. “ Live, Constance, my 
blessed one, what canst thou mean? my life is iforfeited !” 

“ No, no, no !” she reiterated, “it is granted to thee, and 
on conditions easy to accept. Luigi ! thou hast sworn to grant 
my boon — to do my bidding ; and I bid thee live ! live, to be 
happy, glorious, as I know thou wilt be ! Speak not ; hear 
me. Frederic is no longer a king; Naples no longer a king- 
dom; she is parcelled out to others; she hath no sons — no 
name — one hour acknowledging the rights of France, the next 
bowed to the arms of Spain. To one or other of these mighty 
potentates she must belong. My poor, poor father can never 
claim her more. Luigi, my own Luigi, banish the vain hope 
of her freedom — her future influence. Were Frederic here, 
thou knowest he would say to thee, as he did to all when he 
departed, ‘ My children, ’tis vain to struggle ; make peace with 
whom ye will; Frederic absolves you of your allegiance. No 
oath of fealty restrains you.’ Hast thou forgotten this ? no, 
no ; then wherefore shouldst thou pause ; many have bowed 
to Louis, why not to Ferdinand? Luigi, my own Luigi, thou 
shalt live !” 

“ Constance,’* he answered, and he drew her closer to his 
bosom, while his whole frame shook, “ Constance, were this the 
sole condition, for thy sake, beloved, I had not paused — even 
thus I would have lived ; for this poor, unhappy country. I feel, 
will never rise again ; such oath reflects no shame upon he? 
sons. Constance, was this all they told thee?’* 


GONZALVO’S DAUGHTER. 


213 


“ Luigi, no ; there is another — we must part — for ever ! 
Yet — yet, I bid thee live.” Slowly every word fell; but so 
distinctly, so expressively, that despite that low gasping tone, 
he heard them all, and not he alone. 

“ Ha ! thou knowest this. Part, Constance ! and thou 
bidst me live ! I choose death instead. I will not lose thee ; 
I will not wed another.” 

“ Thou wilt — thou shalt ! Luigi, Luigi, ’twill be but a 
brief, brief pang, followed by years of bliss. Oh ! do not 
think this moment’s agony will never, never pass away. The 
hero’s glory, — the warrior’s fame, — the statesman’s pride — 
all, all, shall be thine own. Ambition, with her hundred paths 
to immortality, shall lure thee to forgetfulness, and then to 
peace ; and she — she, who will be thy bride, — oh, if she love 
thee, as they say she does, even she at length will woo thee 
into joy. Luigi, my own, my own, why dost thou turn from 
me ? Speak, oh, speak ; tell me thou wilt live !” She sunk 
on her knees before him, as if that action should continue the 
entreaty for which voice for the moment had utterly failed. 

Constance, Constance ! Dost thou urge me 1 Thou — 
wilt thou give me to another ? Is it thou who bidst me thus 
be happy ? No, no ; thou knowest not how much I love thee !” 

“ Do I not love thee, Luigi ? — Oh ! it is only thus that I 
can save thee, — only thus they will grant thy life — and what 
care I for my happiness % Luigi, if thou diest, how mayst 
thou love me — ^guard me as thou wouldst ? Oh, live, live ! 
— in my lonely convent cell let me think of thee as I know 
thou wilt be, — honoured, loved — aye, and in time so blessed ! 
Let the bright thought be mine, — that I, even I, poor, simple 
Constance, have saved thee. Luigi, deny me not this, turn 
not away. Thou canst not refuse me, — thou barest not — 
thou art sworn !” 

The countenance of Vincenzio became more and more ter 
ribly agitated, — he struggled to break from her hold ; but the 
grasp of agony was upon his cloak, and either held him with 
a giant strength, or his every limb had lost its power, and 
chained him there. He sought to speak ; but only unintelli- 
gible murmurs came, and again that voice of impassioned ap- 
peal came upon his heart, crushing it almost to madness. It 
bade him live; she might need his friendship, though denied 
his love, when time permitted such intercourse innocently to 
both. That tall form bowed, as stricken by a mighty wind : 
a moment, and he had caught her to his bosom, had murmured 


214 


GONZALVO'S DAUGHTER. 


some inarticulate words, and a burst of passionate weeping 
convulsed his frame. Ere the paroxysm passed, he was alone ; 
soldiers, officers, Constance, all were gone. 

V. 

It was noon ; the brilliant sun of Italy poured its golden 
flood through the high pointed casements of a small private 
chapel, in the citadel of Barletta, which had been set apart for 
the sole use of Gonzalvo de Cordova, his family, and personal 
attendants. It was lavishly decorated, seeming in all points 
well suited to the establishment of the great captain. Heavy 
brocades, worked in gold and silver, hung from the walls, 
shading many a shrine, of the same precious metals, where 
saints, Virgin, and Saviour were all blazing in gems. A cloth 
of gold covered the altar, which stood just beneath a gor- 
geously-painted window, that when lighted up, as now, with the 
sun of noon, flung down the most brilliant colouring on floor 
and wall. This day a rich carpet of superb Genoa velvet cov- 
ered the mosaic pavement at the foot of the altar, and deco- 
rated cushions seemed to denote that some unusual ceremony 
was then to be performed ; while the number of sumptuously- 
attired nobles, Spanish, French, and Neapolitan, already as- 
sembled, and the private chaplain of Gonzalvo, missal in hand, 
behind the altar, with his priestly attendants, proclaimed the 
hour at hand. The great captain himself was present, mag- 
nificently attired, leaning on his jewel-hilted sword, wrapt, it 
seemed, by the fixed repose of his countenance, in deep medi- 
tation, which none present chose to interrupt. 

The interest increased tenfold when, attended, or rather 
guarded — few could tell which — Luigi Vincenzio, attired with 
some care, but deadly pale, bearing an expression of fearful 
internal agony on his countenance, slowly advanced up the 
choir to the altar. The gaze of Gonzalvo moved not from 
him ; serious it was, yet scarcely stern, and the tone was calm 
in which he said, “ We have heard. Signor Vincenzio, you ac- 
cept the conditions proposed ! — have we heard aright ?” Luigi 
simply bowed his head in answer, imagining the oath of fealty 
to Ferdinand, and denial of Frederic, would next be adminis- 
tered ; but it came not, silence reigned again uninterrupted 
as before. Then came sounds along the corridor ; the folding 
doors at the base of the chapel were flung wide open, and the 


GONZALVO’S DAUGHTER. 


215 


Lady Elvira, more than usually majestic in mien and carriage, 
entered, followed by several attendants ; her resplendent 
beauty was heightened by an expression of countenance none 
could define, save that it affected the most indifferent specta- 
tor then present with a species of awe, of veneration, that 
could have bowed every knee in unfeigned homage. Stars of 
diamonds glittered in her raven hair, and sparkled down the 
bodice and front of her dark velvet robe. The first glance of 
all rested immovably, seemingly fascinated, on her ; the next 
turned on the slight figure she led forward ; but every curb 
ous effort to discover the stranger’s identity, was rendered vain 
by the thick shrouding veil which completely enveloped her ; 
permitting nothing but the tiny foot and exquisitely-turned 
ankle to be visible. 

A strong shudder had convulsed the form of Vincenzio ; 
he tried to step forward, to speak, but all power appeared to 
forsake him, till a voice, sweet, clear, and silvery, uttered the 
simple words “ I will,” the customary rejoinder to the priest’s 
demand, “wilt thou accept this man as thy wedded lord,” and 
its attendant vows to “ love, honour, and obey.” The voice 
thrilled through him, awakening him to consciousness, he knew 
not how or why ; and he saw he was kneeling before the altar, 
beside that veiled and shrouded form by whom Gonzalvo and 
his daughter were both standing, as if from their hands he re- 
ceived her. Gradually everything became distinct ; La Palice 
was at his side, his hand upon his shoulder, as if rousing him 
from that deadening stupor. He recognised his friends amidst 
that noble group standing around. Had the marriage vow 
been administered to him ? If so he must have replied, or 
the ceremony could not have continued, but he knew not that 
he had spoken ; and what had in fact aroused him ? — a voice ! 
— whose voice? — to whom was he irrevocably joined? Not 
that one whom his fevered fancy had so wildly pictured, for 
she stood there looking on the ceremony, as calm and motion 
less as the most indifferent spectator. 

It was over. Vincenzio and his nameless bride rose from 
their knees, and then it was the hands of Gonzalvo removed 
the veil and led her forward, that the eyes of all might rest 
with admiration on the loveliness disclosed. A cry of aston- 
ishment burst simultaneously from the French prisoners and 
Neapolitans around, and the latter rushed forward and pros- 
trated themselves before her, clasping her robe, her feet, ’mid 
■obs and tears calling on heaven to bless the daughter of their 


216 


GONZALVO'S DAUGHTER. 


king, the being whom from her cradle they had well-nigh wor 
shipped — the Princess Constance ! but one alone stood speech- 
less ; one alone had no power to go forward, for all seemed to 
him a dream, whose bewildering light and bliss would be for 
ever lost in darkness. But as those eyes turned on him, that 
radiant glance sought his, there was one sob, one choking cry, 
and Luigi had bounded forward, had clasped her to his heart 
And then he would have flung himself at Gonzalvo’s feet, to 
pour out the burdening load of gratitude that almost crushed 
him with its magnitude, but Gonzalvo, grasping his hand in 
the friendly pressure of sympathy, forbade all speech till he 
had been heard. 

“ It has been said,” he exclaimed, that to the King of Na- 
ples and his ill-fated family Gonzalvo de Cordova is incapable 
of generosity, or even of humanity ; because the stern mandate 
of his sovereign demanded the sacrifice of his own private 
sentiments of generosity and honour, and compelled the cap- 
tivity of Frederic’s heir. My friends, I plead no excuse, no de- 
fence for this dark deed ; but now that no ght but Gonzalvo’s 
own heart may dictate, I bid ye absolve me of all undue se- 
verity, all unjust dishonour. The Princess Constance offered 
her liberty for that of the Signor Vincenzio ; but, nobles of 
Naples, Gonzalvo scorned it. She is free, as is her husband. 
His ransom, five thousand marks, is discharged from my private 
coffers, and settled as a marriage dowry on his bride. Both, 
then, are free, unshackled by condition, free as the winds of 
heaven to travel where they list. We heard of a noble of 
France hostile to this union, and on account of his birth ap- 
proved of by King Frederic ; and therefore is it we have been 
thus secret, and would counsel Signor Vincenzio to accept the 
s^essel lying at anchor, ready for his use, and convey his gentle 
bride to the court of her father without delay. We will take 
all blame ; for the union, as ye have all witnessed, hath been 
without consent of the bridegroom. For thee, Signor Vincen- 
zio, thy fault is unconditionally pardoned, a grace won for thee 
by the truth and glorious heroism of thy gentle bride. No 
thanks — to us they are nof due ; we had been terrible in wrath, 
resolute to demand the forfeit of rebellion, even to the last, 
save for one whose earnest pleadings we had no power to resist. 
In your love, your happiness, think on Gonzalvo’s daughter, 
for to her ye owe it all.” 

It needed not the name : ere that rich voice ceased, Vin- 
cenzio and his bride were kneeling at the feet of the Lady 


GONZALVO’S DAUGHTER. 


217 


Klvira; the former pouring forth with passionate eloquence 
his gratitude, his veneration ; in words burning thrilling, 
known only to Italy’s impassioned clime. She heard, and a 
faint quivering smile was on those lips ; one hand she yielded 
to his respectful homage, and laid the other caressingly, 
fondly, on the beautiful head of Constance, whose face was 
lifted up to hers beaming in all the blissful eonfidence of love, 
of joy, of devotion, conscious that to her she owed all that 
made life dear. 

“ Bid Constance tell thee how much Elvira owes to her. 
Signor Vincenzio, and thou wilt learn I have yet more cause 
of gratitude than thou hast,” she said, and not one word quiv- 
ered. “ To thee she has given a life ; to me — what is far 
more valuable — Elvira to herself, unstained, unscathed ; her 
soul of honour cloudless, true, when all methought had failed. 
Farewell ! be happy, and may good angels guard ye both !” 

She raised the Princess, and folded her to her heart. 
‘‘ There was an eye thou knewest not upon thee in his prison,” 
she whispered, ere she released her. “ Constance, hadst thou 
failed, we had both been lost, for I had seen no stronger spirit 
than my own. Thou hast saved us both, and must be blessed.” 
She printed a long kiss on that beautiful brow, and placed her 
in her husband’s arms. A brief interval of congratulation, of 
joyful conference followed, and then all within that chapel was 
silent and deserted. Hours pas.sed. The chieftain of Spain 
had returned from accompanying Vincenzio and his bride to 
their vessel, though he had tarried to watch them weigh 
anchor and disappear in the distance. He inquired for his 
daughter, sought her in all her haunts, and lastly, with a 
strange foreboding, re-entered the chapel. No voice, and at 
first no figure met his eye or ear ; he rushed forwards, a 
beautiful form lay either lifeless or in a deep swoon at the 
altar’s foot, her rich and luxuriant hair falling heavily and 
darkly around her. It was the Lady Elvira. 

# # # # # 4! 

The remainder of the Lady Elvira’s career is a matter cf 
history : with it the romancer interfereth no further. 


JLutjrffttSS. 


I. 

‘‘You surely do not intend acting such a fool’s part, Dudley, 
as that our little world assigns you ?” was the address of one 
friend to another, as they drew their chairs more cosily to- 
gether, in the little sanctum to which they had retreated, after 
a tete-a-tete dinner. 

“ And what may that be, my good fellow ?” 

“Why, throw away yourself and your comfortable prop- 
erty on a person little likely to value either one or the other, 
and certainly worthy of neither — Clara Stanley.” 

Granville Dudley coloured highly. “ Oblige me, at least, 
by speaking of that young lady with respect,” he said ; “ how- 
ever you and your companions may mistake my intentions 
concerning her.” 

“ Mistake, my good fellow ; your face and tone are con- 
firmation strong. I am sorry for it though, for I would rather 
see you happy than any man I know.” 

“ I believe you, Charles ; but what is there so terribly op- 
posed to my happiness in an union with Miss Stanley, grant- 
ing for the moment that I desire it?” Charles Heyward sat 
silent, and stirred the fire. “ Because she is not rich ? nay, I 
believe, rather the contrary.” 

“ I do not think you worldly, Granville.” 

“ Thank you, for doing me but justice. I am perfectly 
indifferent as to wealth or poverty in a woman. But what ia 
your objection then ? She is not superlatively beautiful nor 
seemingly first-rate in accomplishment ; but what then ? She 
is pleasing, unaffected, full of feeling, very domestic, for I 
seldom meet her out.” 

Again were the poker and the blazing coals at variance, 
and more noisily than before. 

“ My good friend, you have roused that fire and my cu • 
riosity Id a most unbearable state of heat. Do speak out. 
What is the matter with Miss Stanley, that when I mention 


THE AUTHORESS. 


219 


the words ‘ feeling ' and ‘ domestic,’ you look unbelieving as a 
heretic? Can you say ‘Nay’ to any one thing I have said?’' 

“ Nay to them all, Glranville Dudley,” exclaimed Heyward^ 
with vehemence. “ It is because you need a most domestic 
woman for your happiness, I tell you do not marry Clara 
Stanley: she is a determined blue — light, dark, every im- 
aginable shade — a poet, a philosopher, a preacher — writes for 
every periodical — lays down the law on all subjects of litera- 
ture, from a fairy tale to a philosophical treatise or ministerial 
sermon. For heaven’s sake ! have nothing to dc with her. 
A literary woman is the very antipodes to domestic Jiappiness. 
Fly, before your peace is seriously at stake.” 

Granville Dudley looked, and evidently felt disturbed. At 
first, startled and incredulous, he compelled his friend to 
reiterate his charge and its proofs. Nothing loath, Charles 
Heyward brought forward so many particulars, so many facts, 
concerning the lady in question, which, from his near relation- 
ship to the family with whom she lived, he had been enabled 
easily to collect, that Granville, unable to disprove or even 
contradict one of them, sank back on his chair, almost with a 
groan. 

“ Why, my dear sober-minded philosophic friend, you can- 
not surely have permitted your heart to escape your wise 
keeping so effectually in so short a space of time, that you 
cannot call it back again with a word ? Cheer up, and be a 
man. Thank the fates that such a melancholy truth was dis- 
covered before it was too late. I have heard you forswear 
literary women so often that 1 could not stand calmly by, and 
see you run your head blindfold into such a noose ; she is a 
nice girl enough, and if she were not so confoundedly clever, 
might be very bearable.’* 

“ But how is it I never discovered that she is so clever ? 
If it be displayed so broadly, how can she hide it so completely 
before strangers ?” 

“ She does not display it, Granville. No one would 
imagine she was a whit cleverer than other people ; she has no 
pretension, nor airs of superiority ; but she writes, she writes, 
‘ there’s the rub,’ and she loves it too — which is worse still — 
and a public literary character cannot be a domestic wife ; 
one who is ever pining for and receiving fame can never be 
content with the praise of one ; and one who is always creat- 
ing imaginary feelings can have none for realities. To speak 
more plainly, those who love a thousand times in idea can 


220 


THE AUTHORECS. 


never love once in reality ; and so I say, Clara Stanley can 
not value you sufficiently ever to possess the rich honour oi 
being chosen as your wife. Do not be angry with my bluncr 
ness, Granville ; I only speak because I love you,” 

Granville Dudley was not angry ; perhaps it had been bet- 
ter for bis happiness if he had been, as then he would not 
have been so easily convinced by the specious reasoning of 
his friend. The conversation lasted all that evening, and 
when Dudley retired to rest, it was with a firm determina- 
tion to watch Clara Stanley a few weeks longer, and if it really 
were as Heyward stated, to dismiss her from his thoughts at 
once, and even quit England for a time, rather than permit a 
momentary fancy to make him miserable for life. 

Now, though Charles Heyward had spoken in the lan- 
guage of the world, he was not by any means a worldly man ; 
nor Granville Dudley, though he had listened and been con- 
vinced, unjust or capricious. Unfortunately for Miss Stanley’s 
happiness, Granville’s mother had been one of those shallow 
pretenders to literature which throw such odium upon all its 
female professors. From his earliest childhood Dudley had 
been accustomed to regard literature and authorship as sy- 
nonymous with domestic discord, conjugal disputes, and a 
complete neglect of all duties, social or domestic. As he 
grew older, the excessive weakness of his mother’s character, 
her want of judgment and common sense, and — it appeared 
to his ardent disposition — even of common feelings, struck 
him more and more ; her descriptions of conjugal and mater 
nal love were voted by her set of admirers as perfect ; but be 
could never remember that the practice was equal to the the- 
ory. Nay, it did reach his ears, though he banished the 
thought with horror, that his father’s early death might have 
been averted, had he received more judicious care and tender 
watchfulness from his literary wife. 

Mrs. Dudle}’-, however, died before her son’s strong affec- 
tions had been entirely blunted through her apparent indiffer- 
ence ; and he therefore only permitted himself to remember 
her faults as being the necessary consequence of literature 
and genius encouraged in a woman. He was neither old nor 
experienced enough, at the time of her death, to distinguish 
between real genius and true literary aspirings, and their shal- 
low representatives, superficial knowledge and overbearing 
*onceit. 

As this was the case, it was not in the least surprising that 


THE AUTHORESS. 


221 


lie should be so easily convinced of the truth and plausibility 
of Heyward’s reasoning, or that Charles Heyward, aware oi 
all which Dudley’s youth had endured from literature and au 
thorship in a mother, should be so very eager to save him 
from their repetition in the closer relationship of a wife. 

But Clara Stanley was no mere pretender to genius ; the wise 
and judicious training of affectionate parents had saved her 
from all the irregularities of temper, indecision of purpose, 
and inconstancy of pursuit which, because they have charac- 
terised some w^ayward ones, are regarded as peculiai to ge- 
nius. Her earliest childhood had displayed more than com- 
mon intellect, and its constant companions, keen sensibility 
and thoughtfulness ; a vivid imagination, an intuitive percep- 
tion of the beautiful, the holy, and the good ; an extraordi- 
nary memory, and rapid comprehension of every variety of lit- 
erature, alike prose and poetry, unfolded with her youth, com- 
bined with the most persevering efforts after improvement in 
every study which could assist her natural gifts. It was im- 
possible for her parents not to regard her with pride, but it 
was pride mingled with trembling ; for they knew, though she 
did not, that even as she was set apart in the capability of 
mind from her fellows, so she was in the capability of suffer- 
ing Knowing this, their every wish, their every effort, was 
directed to providing her with a haven of refuge, where that 
ever-throbbing heart might find its only perfect rest. Taught 
to regard mental powers, however varied, as subordinate to 
her duties as a woman, and an English and religious woman, 
modesty, gentleness, and love marked every word and every 
action. Few there were, except her own immediate circle and 
friends, who knew the extent of her mental powers, cr the real 
energy and strength of her character ; but countless was the 
number of those thai loved her. 

It was not, however, till after her father’s death she saw 
and felt the necessity of making her talents a source of use- 
fulness as well as of pleasure. She was then little more than 
seventeen, but under the fostering care of an influential liter- 
ary friend, she was introduced to the periodicals of the day, 
her productions accepted, and more requested from the same 
hand. 

Though a few years after Mr. Stanley’s death, however, 
their pecuniary affairs were so advantageously settled that 
Clara had no longer any necessity to make literature a profes- 
sion. Their income was moderate, but it rendered them hap 
pily independent. 


222 


THE AUTHORESS. 


“Now, now,” was Clara’s ardent exclamation, as she clasp- 
ed her arms about her mother’s neck, “ I may concentrate ray 
energies to a better and holier purpose than the mere liter- 
ature of the day ; now I may indulge the dream of effecting 
goocf, more than the mere amusement of the hour ; now I 
am no longer hound. Oh, who in this world is happier or 
more blessed than I am?” 

And as long as she resided under her mother’s roof, in the 
pretty little village which had so long been her home, she was 
truly happy. Encouraged by the popularity which, through 
her literary friend, she learned that she had acquired ; satis- 
fied that he thought her capable of the work she had attempt- 
ed, and blessed with a mother for whose sake alone Clara 
valued fame ; for she knew how sweet to maternal affection 
were the praises of a child. 

But this might not last. Before she was one-and-twenty 
Clara was an orphan, and long, long it was ere she could re- 
sume the employments she had so loved, or look forward to 
anything but loneliness and misery. Every thought, every 
task was associated with the departed, and could filial love 
have preserved the vital spark the mother had yet been spared ; 
and had Granville Dudley known Clara in that sad time he 
would have been compelled to abjure his belief in the in- 
compatibility of literature with woman’s duties and affections. 

But of such a trial both Granville and Heyward knew 
nothing ; nor, when the latter said that she loved her profes- 
sion, did he imagine the struggle it had been for her to re- 
sume it — how completely at first it had been the voice of 
duty, not of love. Fame had never been to her either incen- 
tive or further reward than the mere gratification of the mo- 
ment, and as a source of pleasure to her mother ; and how 
vain and hollow did fame seem now ! But hers was not a 
spirit to be conquered by deep sorrow. She resumed her 
employments when health returned, with a bursting heart, in- 
deed, but they brought reward. They drew her from herself 
for the time being, and energy in seeking to accomplish good 
gradually followed. The severity of her trial was, however, 
if possible, heightened by the great change in her mode of life. 
Her only near relation was an uncle, who lived and moved in 
one of those circles of high pretension and false merit with 
which the metropolis abounds. His wife, an ultra-fashionist, 
lived herself and educated her daughters for the world and 
its follies alone, inculcating the necessity of attracting and 


THE AUTHORESS. 


‘x!23 


gaining husbands, but not of keeping them. Exterior ao 
complishment, superficial conversation, graceful carriage, and 
fashionable manners were all that were considered needful — 
and all of feeling or of sentiment rubbed off, as romance 
much too dreadful to be avowed. 

To this family, at the request of her uncle, who actually 
made the exertion of fetching her himself, Clara removed 
eight months after her mother’s death. Yearning for affection, 
and knowing little of her relatives, Clara had given imagina- 
tion vent, and hoped happiness might again be dawning for 
her. How greatly she was disappointed our readers may 
judge by the sketch we have given. In their vocabulary, 
authorship and learning were synonymous with romance and 
folly ; and worse still, as dooming their possessors, unavoida- 
bly, to a state of single blessedness, and therefore to be shun- 
ned as they would the plague itself. That Clara devoted to 
her literary pursuits but the same number of hours that one 
Miss Barclay did to music (that is its mechanical not its men- 
tal part), another to oriental or mezzotinting, or another to 
the creation of wax-work, Berlin wool, etc., was not of the 
least consequence ; their horror of blueism was such, that to 
prevent all supposition of their approval of Clara’s mode of 
life, they never lost an opportunity of bewailing her unfortu- 
nate propensity- — and of so impre^ing all who visited at the 
house with the idea of her great learning and obtrusive wis- 
dom, that the gentle, unpretending manners of the authoress 
could noo weigh against it ; and she found herself universally 
shunned as something too terrible to be defined. 

“ With all this, I write on, hope on,” she once wrote to an 
intimate friend ; “ struggling to feel that if indeed I accom- 
plish good^ I shall not live in vain ; and my own personal 
loneliness and sorrow will be of little consequence. But, oh ! 
how different it is to write merely for the good of others, to 
the same efforts, to the same goal, pursued under the influence 
of sympathy and affection ! Because a woman has mind, she 
is supposed to have no hearty and has no occasion therefore 
for the sweet charities of life ; when by her, if possible more 
than any other, they are imperatively needed. Others may 
find pleasure or satisfaction in foreign excitement ; to her, 
home is all in all. If there be one to love her there — be it 
parent, husband, or friend — she heeds no more ; the yearnings 
of her heart are stilled, the mind provides her with unfading 
flowers, and her lot is as inexpressibly happy as without such 


224 


THE AUTHOB,ESS, 


domestic ties it is inexpressibly sad. Do not wish me, as you 
have sometimes done, dear Mary, to love, for it would be un- 
returned ; simply, because it is the general belief that an au' 
thoress can have no time, no capability of any emotion save 
for the creations of her o.vn mind.” 

So wrote Clara ; though, at the time, she knew not how 
soon her words would be verified. As soon as the term of 
mourning had expired, though little inclined for the exertion, 
she conquered her own shrinking repugnance to asserting and 
adopting her own rights; and, to the astonishment of Mr. and 
Mrs. Barclay, she accepted some of the invitations which cour- 
tesy had sent her. Though entered into merely as a duty, so- 
ciety gradually became a source of pleasure, in the discovery 
that all her aunt’s circle were not ol the same frivolous kind ; 
and then slowly, but surel}^ the pleasure deepened into intense 
enjoyment from the conversation and attentions of Granville 
Dudley, whom she met constantly, though he did not visit her 
uncle. Clara was so very unlike her cousins, whose endeavours 
to gain husbands were somewhat too broadly marked, that Dud- 
ley had been irresistibly attracted towards her; a fancy which 
every interview so strengthened, that he began very seriously 
to question his own heart as to whether he really was in love. 

As Miss Stanley’s name was not generally known to the 
literary world, and the lady, at whose house Granville mostly 
met her, was herself scarcely aware that she was anything 
more than an amiable, sensible, and strongly feeling girl, 
Granville Dudley knew nothing of her claims to literature 
and authorship till his conversation with Charles Heyward, 
near the close of the season, revealed them as we have said. 
The very next time they met, Dudley, half fearfully, half re- 
solutely, led the subject to literature and literati, and drew 
from Clara’s own lips the avowal he dreaded. In the happy 
state of feeling which his presence always created, she at first 
imagined he thus spoke from interest and sympathy in all she 
did ; and enthusiastic, as was her wont in conversation with 
those who she thought understood her, she said more on the 
subject, its enjoyment and resources, than she had ever done 
in London. Granville said nothing in reply, which could have 
c^'illed her at the time. Yet when the evening was over, 
Clara’s heart sunk within her; she knew not wherefore, save 
that a secret foreboding whispered wdthin her that conversa- 
tion had sealed her fate. Dudley would not trust his happi- 
ness with her. 


lUE AUTHORESS. 


22 £ 


At one other party she was to meet him, ere the season 
closed, and the veriest devotee to balls and soirees could not 
have longed for it more than poor Clara ; who looked forward 
to it as the confirmer or dispenser of her fears. The morning 
of the day on which it was to take place, little Emily, the 
youngest of the family, was seized with a violent attack of 
fever, which increased as evening advanced. It so happened 
that all the Barclay family who were “ out” were engaged that 
evening ; Mr. and Mrs Barclay, and their two elder daughters, 
at a card and musical soiree ; the other two, and their bro- 
thers, under the chaperonage of Mrs. Smith, the gouvernante^ 
at the ball to which Clara looked forward with so much eager- 
ness. What is to be done? The child could not be left ; and 
without Mrs. Smith, what was to become of her sisters ? It was 
impossible for them to go alone, and equally impossible for 
mother, father, or either sister of the little sufiFerer, to give up 
a fashionable party for the dreadful doom of sitting by a sick 
bed. 

Looks and hints of every variety were levelled at Clara ; 
who, with her usual benevolence, had stationed herself close 
by her little cousin, ever ready to administer kindness or re- 
lief. At any other time, she would not have hesitated a mo- 
ment; but with the restless craving to see Granville Dudley 
again, the giving up her only chance, for a time at least, was 
so exquisitely painful, that she could not offer to remain. 
Mrs. Barclay, however, seeing hints of no avail, at length di- 
rectly entreated that, as she was less fond of going out than 
any one else, she might be glad of the excuse, to give the 
time to her books and writing, and it would really be doing her 
(Mrs. Barclay) an especial favour if she would stay and nurse 
Emily. Clara’s high spirit, and strong sens^ of selfish injus- 
tice, obtained such unusual dominion, that she had well-nigh 
proudly refused ; but the little sufferer looked in her face so 
piteously, and entreated her so pleadingly to remain, that, ever 
awake to the impulse of affection. Miss Stanley consented. 

The disappointment was a bitter one, though Clara’s strong 
sense of rectitude caused her to reproach herself for its keen- 
ness, as uncalled for. What did Granville Dudley care for 
her, that she should so think of him ? but vain the question. 
Every backward gVance on their intercourse convinced her 
that he had thought of her, had singled her out, to pay her 
those attentions, that gentle and winning deference, which, 
from a man of honour, such as the world designated him, 


226 


THE AUTHORESS. 


could not be misconstrued. There was one comfort, how 
ever, in her not meeting him ; if he knew what kept her at 
home, he would scarcely continue to believe that her only 
thoughts were of literature and authorship. 

Little did she know that, before they departed on their 
several ways, it was settled in the Barclay parliament that 
nothing whatever was to be said of little Emily’s illness, lest 
people should fancy it contagious, and send them no more in 
vitations, so closing their chances of matrimony for that 
season, before it was quite time. 

“ If Clara is asked for, my dears — which is not at all 
likely — you can say you know that she could not leave her 
writing, or correcting a proof, or some such literary business. 
I leave it to you, Matilda ; you are sharp enough, particularly 
in framing excuses for a rival, whom I know you are glad to 
get out of your way. Folks say Granville Dudley had a 
literary mother ; he is not likely to wish for a literary wife.” 

The young lady answered with a knowing nod ; and per- 
formed her mission so admirably, that after that evening Gran- 
ville Dudley disappeared. Power she certainly had to sepa- 
rate him from Clara, but to attach him to herself was not 
quite so easy. The answer she had given to Granville’s in- 
quiries after her cousin was so carelessly natural — that Clara, 
as an authoress, a literary character, had so many superior 
claims, that parties and everything else must be secondary, 
and this followed up by a high encomium on her great talent, 
she should say genius ; but it was, she thought, almost a pity 
to be so gifted, as it incapacitated her from common sympa- 
thies and duties — that it confirmed Granville’s previous fears. 
And while it made him almost turn sick with disappointment 
and anguish, for . it seemed only then he felt how completely 
she had become a part of himself, he vowed to tear himself 
from her influence ere it was too late, and the very next 
morning left London. 

“ You were right, Heyward. I suppose I shall be a happy 
man again some day or other, but not now ; so do not try to 
philosophise me into being so.” 

“ But, my good fellow, perhaps after all we have been 
frightened at shadows ; and, hang it ! but I am sorry I said 
so much at first. That Emily Barclay has been very ill, and 
was so that eventful night, are facts; and, in my opinion, 
Clara stayed to nurse her, because the others were all too 
•elfish.” 


THE AUTHORESS. 


227 


A sentimental excuse to obtain time for dear, delightful 
jolitary musings, or some such thing. It is too late, How 
ward ; she is literary, and so she cannot be domestic. I will 
not think of her any more.” 

This was not quite so easy to do as to say ; but Granville 
Dudley was a man of the world, far too proud and resolute to 
bow, or seem to bow, beneath feeling, particularly when he 
believed himself on the point of loving one who was utterly 
incapacitated from giving him any heart in return. He went 
abroad, travelled during the remainder of the summer, joined 
the first Parisian circles in the autumn, and before the year 
closed was a married man. 


II. 

Eight years have passed, and Clara Stanley is still unmar- 
ried ; yet she is happy and contented, for she is once more 
amid the scenes of her childhood ; once more the centre of a 
domestic circle, who vie with each other who can love her best. 
Two years after she heard of Granville Dudley’s marriage, 
finding a London life less and less suited to her tastes, and not 
conceiving any actual duty bound her to reside with her 
uncle’s family, she resolved on making her home with an inti- 
mate friend of her mother’s, who was associated with all the 
happy memories of her own childhood and youth. Reduced 
circumstances had lately compelled Mrs. Langley to take 
pupils ; a fact which had instantly determined Clara’s plans. 
She was the more desirous for retirement and domestic ties, 
from the very notoriety which the constant success of her 
literary efforts had flung around her. She did not disdain or 
undervalue fame ; but all of expressed admiration, all public 
homage, was so very much more pain than pleasure, that she 
shrunk from it ; longing yet more for some kindly heart on 
which to rest her own. Let us not be mistaken : it was not 
for love, in the world’s adaptation of the word, she needed ; it 
was a parent’s fostering care — a brother’s supporting friend- 
ship — a sister’s sympathy, or one friend to love her for herself, 
for the qualities of hearty not for the labours and capabilities 
of mind. From the time she heard of Dudley’s marriage, all 
thought of individual happiness as a wife faded from her ima- 
gination. Her only efforts were to rouse every energy to sup- 
ply objects of interest and affection, and so prevent the list- 


228 


THE AUTHORESS. 


lessncss and despondency too often the fate of disappointed 
women. This had, at first, been indeed a painfully difficult 
task ; for her heart had whispered it was because she was 
different from her fellows, because she was what the world 
termed literary and learned, Granville had shunned her ; and 
a few words, undesignedly and carelessly spoken by Charles 
Heyward, relative to Dudley’s dislike to female literature, 
from its effect on his mother, confirmed the idea, and made 
her shrink from her former favourite pursuits. But she, toO; 
had a character to sustain ; and once more she compelled her- 
self to work, believing that her talents were lent her to be in- 
struments of good, not to lie unused. And yet, to a character 
of strong affections and active energies, mental resources, 
however varied, were not quite sufficient for happiness ; and 
therefore was it she formed and executed the plan we have 
named. 

So seven years had sped, and there "v^as little variation in 
the life of our heroine for her biographer to record. Her 
constant prayer was heard. Her name had become a house- 
hold word, coupled with love, from the pure high feelings and 
ennobling sympathies which her writings had called forth. 
Her works had made her beloved and revered, though her 
person, nay, her very place of residence and all concerning her 
were, as she desired, utterly unknown. This in itself was 
happiness, inexpressibly heightened by her present domestic 
duties, lightening Mrs. Langley’s household cares; giving part 
of everj day to that lady’s pupils ; teaching them not only to 
be accomplished and domestic, but to be thinkers ; training 
the hearty even more than the mind ; making nature alike a 
temple and a school : all the sweet charities of home were 
now hers, and her heart was indeed happy and once more at 
rest. 

And was Granville Dudley, then, forgotten? When we 
say that Clara might have married more than once, and most 
happily, but that she had refused, simply because she could 
not permit an unloved reality to usurp the place of a still 
ioved shadow — all doubts, we think, are answered. 

Of Granville Dudley she could never hear ; all trace oi 
him seemed lost. Within the last few years the newspapers 
had indeed often teemed with the praises and speeches of a 
Sir Dudley Granville ; but though the conjunction of names 
had at first rivetted her eye and made her heart turn strangely 
sick, she banished the thought as folly. It was a Granville 


THE AUTHORESS. 


229 


Pudloy, not a Dudley Granville, wliom slie had so fondlj 
loved. 

Miss Stanley had resided about seven years with Mrs 
Langley, when application was made to the lattt.r lady to re- 
oeive the only child of Sir Dudley Granville as her pupil 
The child was motherless, and in such very precarious health, 
that the milder climate of Devonshire had been advised, as, 
combined with extreme care, the only chance of rearing her to 
womanhood. Mrs. Langley’s establishment was full, six 
being her allotted number, which no persuasion had as yet 
ever induced her to increase. There was something, however, 
in the appearance of the little Laura which so unconsciously 
wore upon Clara, that she could not resist pleading iij the 
child’s behalf; and as one of the pupils was to leave the next 
half year, Mrs. Langley acceded. Clara’s name, however, had 
not been mentioned in this transaction. The lady who had 
the charge of Laura had indeed conversed with her, and had 
been charmed with her manner ; but little imagined she was 
enjoying the often-coveted honour of conversing with air 
authoress, and one so popular as Clara Stanley. She said 
that Laura, though eight years old, literally knew nothing. 
Lady Granville had been the belle of her time, but one who 
had the greatest horror of all learning in woman, and in con- 
sequence possessing nothing of herself but showy accomplish- 
ment, which told in society. She had neglected the poor 
child, wasted alike her own health and her husband’s income 
in the sole pursuit of pleasure, and hurried herself to an early 
grave. Laura’s health had been so delicate since then, that 
her father feared to commence her studies, even while he was 
most anxious she should become a sensible and accomplished 
woman, with resources for happiness within herself. 

“ And she shall be, if I can make her so,” was Clara’s 
inward thought, as she looked on the sweet face of the child, 
and a new chord in her heart was touched she knew not 
wherefore. It was impossible to analyse the feeling, even to 
one long accustomed to analysing hearts, and Clara gave it 
up in despair ; but affection and interest alike clung round 
the child, who gave back all she received. Her weak health 
prevented her entering into all the routine of the schoolroom, 
and she became Clara’s constant companion and pupil Ke- 
peatedly the artless letters of the child to her doating father 
teemed with the goodness, the gentleness, the tenderness of 
Miss Stanley ; soon convincing Sir Dudley how quick and 


230 


THE AUTHORESS. 


ready were her powers of comprehension, and filling his heart 
with gratitude towards that kind friend, whom he knew not, 
guessed not was the authoress of the same name whose gentle 
eloquence in her sex’s cause had even now his admiration. 

Laura Grranville had been with Mrs. Langley about eight 
months, when she became extremely ill, from an epidemic 
that had suddenly broken out in the village ; all Mrs. 
Langley’s household were attacked by it in a greater or less 
degree, but in Laura alone did it threaten to be fatal. 
Careless of her own fatigue, Clara devoted herself, day and 
night, to the young sufierer. Her affections had never before 
been so warmly enlisted ; not one of her young friends had 
ever become so completely part of herself, and as she watched 
and tended her morning prayers for her recovery, it seemed 
as if the child must be something nearer to her than in 
reality she was. 

An express had been sent off for Sir Dudley Granville ; 
but, from his having gone unexpectedly to visit a friend in 
Germany, it was unavoidably delayed on its way, and nearly 
three weeks elapsed ere the baronet reached Ashford. From 
the haste with which he had travelled, no account of her 
progress could reach him ; and it was in a state of agony and 
suspense no words can describe that the father flung himself 
from his carriage at Mrs. Langley’s gate, and rushed into her 
presence. 

“ Your child lives ; is rapidlyrecovering — may be stronger 
than she has been yet,” were the first words he heard, for his 
look and manner were all-sufficient introduction ; and the 
benevolent physician, who had that instant quitted his little 
patient, grasped Sir Dudley’s hand with reassuring pressure. 
The baronet tried to return it with a smile, but his quivering 
lip could only gasp forth an ejaculation of thankfulness, 
and,' sinking on a chair, he covered his face with his 
hand. 

“ Let me see this incomparable young woman, the pre- 
i?erver of my child!” he passionately exclaimed, as Dr. 
Bernard and Mrs. Langley, after describing the progress and 
crisis of Laura’s illness, attributed her unexpected recovery, 
under Providence, to the incessant care and watchfulness of 
Miss Stanley, the physician declaring his utmost skill had 
been, without it, of no avail whatever. Being assured his 
appearance would not injure Laura, who was, in truth, daily 
expecting him, he eagerly followed Mrs. Langley to the room, 
and paused a moment on the threshold unobserved. 


THE AUTHORESS. 


231 


Laura was sitting up in her little bed, supported hy 
pillows, looking pale and delicate, indeed, but smiling with 
that joyous animation which, in childhood, is so sure a sign 
of returning health ; and dressing, with the greatest zest, a 
beautiful doll, which, with its plentifully-supplied wardrobe, 
lay beside her. Near the bed, and seated by a small table, 
covered with books and writings, was Clara, who, by the 
rapid movement of her pen, and her immovable attention, 
was evidently deeply engrossed in her employment. Sir 
Dudley could not see her face, for it was bent down, and even 
its profile turned from him, but a strange thrill shot through 
him as he gazed. 

“ Oh ! look. Miss Stanley, how beautiful your work shows, 
now she is dressed. How kind you were to make her all 
these pretty things. I can do it all but these buttons, will 
you do them for me ?” 

Clara laid down her pen with a smile, to comply with the 
child’s request ; and, as she did so, Laura laid her little head 
caressingly on her bosom, saying, fondly, “ Dear, dear Miss 
Stanley, I wish papa would come ; he would thank you for all 
your goodness much better than I can.” 

“ I wish he would come, for your sake and his own, dearest 
— ^not to thank me, though I shall not love you the less for 
being so grateful, Laura,” was the reply, in a voice, whose low, 
musical tones brought back, as by a flash of light, to Sir Dud- 
ley’s heart, feelings, thoughts, memories, of past years, which 
he thought were hushed for ever. 

“Miss Stanley! Clara! — inscrutable Providence! — is it 
to you I owe my child he exclaimed, springing suddenly 
forward, and clasping his little child to his heart— one moment 
covering Laura’s upturned face with kisses, the next turning 
his earnest, grateful gaze on the astonished Clara. 

For an instant her heart grew faint, for the fatigue of long- 
continued nursing had weakened her ; nor could she realize 
in that agitating moment the lapse of ten years, since she had 
last looked on his face, or listened to his richly expressive 
voice. Time had passed over her heart, leaving its early dream 
unchanged, and vainly she strove to feel how long a period 
had flown. All seemed a thick and traceless mist ; but when 
she succeeded in shaking oflf that prostrating weakness, forcing 
herself to remember it was Sir Dudley Granville, not Gran- 
ville Dudley, who had thus addressed her, still one fact was 
certain, the object of her flrst, her only affection was at her 
side once more — it was his child her care had saved 


£32 


THE authoress. 


Day after day did Clara Stanley and Sir Dudley Granville 
pass Lours together by the couch of Laura. Thougli conscious 
her secret was still her own, and grateful that, after the first 
burst of natural feeling. Granville’s manner to her was only 
that of an obliged and appreciating friend, Clara’s peculiarly 
delicate feelings would have kept her from Laura’s room during 
the visits of her father ; bat the child was restless and un* 
comfortable whenever she was absent, and Granville so evi- 
dently entreated her continued presence, that to keep away 
was impossible. It was during these pleasant interviews Sir 
Dudley related the cause of his change of name. He had 
become, most unexpectedly, the heir to his godfather. Sir Wil- 
liam Granville, who had left him all his estates, on the sole 
condition of his adopting, for himself and his heirs, the name 
of Granville — Sir Granville Granville, he added, with a smile, 
was not sufficiently euphonious, and so he had placed the Dud' 
ley first, instead of last. He alluded in terms of the warmest 
admiration to her works, and wondered at his own stupidity 
in never connecting the Miss Stanley of his Laura’s letters 
with the authoress he had once known. A very peculiar smile 
beamed on the lips of Clara as he thus spoke, but she did not 
say its meaning. 

One day, some six or seven weeks after Granville’s appear- 
ance at Ashford, Clara had just comfortably seated herself at 
her desk, after seeing Laura ensconced in her little pony chaise, 
when she was startled by hearing Sir Dudley’s voice, in accents 
of unusual seriousness, close beside her. 

“Will you tell me. Miss Stanley, how you can possibly 
contrive to unite so perfectly the literary with the domestic 
characters ? I have watched, but cannot find you fail in either 
— how is this ?” 

“ Simply, Sir Dudley, because, in my opinion, it is impos- 
sible to divide them. Perfect in them, indeed, I am not; but 
though I know it is possible for woman to be domestic with 
out being literary — as we are all not equally endowed by Pro- 
vidence — to my feelings, it is not possible to be more thari 
usually gifted without being domestic. The appeal to the 
heart must come from the heart ; and the quick sensibility of 
the imaginative woman must make her feel for others, and act 
for them, more particularly for the loved of home. To ivrite. 
we must tliink^ and if we think of duty, we. of all others, musl 
not fail ill the performance, or our own words are bitter with 
reproach. It is from want of thought most failings spring 


THE AUTHORESS. 


233 


alike in duty as in feeling, From this want the literary and 
imaginative woman must b^e free.” 

Granville’s eyes never moved from the fair, expressive face 
of the gentle woman who thus spoke, till she ceased, and then 
he paced the room in silence ; till, seating himself beside her, 
he besought her to listen to him, and pity and forgive him, 
and prove that she forgave him ; and, ere she could reply, he 
poured forth the tale of his earlier love — how truly he loved 
her, even when his idle prejudices against literary women 
caused him to fly from her influence, and enter into a hurried 
engagement with one, beautiful indeed, but, from having no 
resources within herself, the mere votaress of pleasure and 
outward excitement. How bitterly he had repented through 
seven weary years the misery he had brought upon him- 
self — how constantly he had yearned for a companion of his 
home and of his mind — and how repeatedly, as he glanced 
over her pages, where pure fresh feeling breathed in every 
line, and the love of home and its sacred ties were so forcibly 
inculcated, he had cursed his own folly. How he had sought 
to drown thought in a public career, but had still felt desolate ; 
and now that he looked on her again, not only in her own 
character, but as the preserver of his child, how completely 
he felt that happiness was gone from him for ever, unless she 
would give it in herself ! 

Clara’s face was turned from him as he spoke, but ere h& 
concluded, the quick, bright tears were falling in her lap* 
and when she tried to meet his glance and speak, her lip 
so quivered that no words came. It was an effort ere she 
could tell her tale ; but it was told at length, though Gran- 
ville’s ardent gratitude was for the moment checked by her 
serious rejoinder. 

“ It is no shame now, dear Granville, to confess how deeply 
and constantly I have returned your affection ; but listen to 
me, ere you proceed further. I do not doubt what you say, 
that your prejudices are all removed ; but are you certain, 
quite certain, that a woman who has resources of mind as well 
as of heart can make you happy, as you believe ? At one-and- 
twenty you could have moulded me to what you pleased. I 
doubt whether I should have written another line, hgd you 
not approved of my doing it. At one-and-thirty this cannot 
be. i\ly character — my habits are formed. I cannot draw 
back from my literary path, for I feel it accomplishes good. 
Can I indeed make your happiness as I am ? Dearest Gram 
villr do not let feeling alone decide.” 


234 


THE AUTHORESS. 


“ Feeling ! sense ! reason ! Clara — my own Clara — all 
speak and have spoken long. Make my child but like your- 
self, and with two such blessings I dare not picture what life 
would be — too, too much joy.” 

# * * # # # 

And joy it was. Joy as it seemed. Granville has felt 
that for once imagination fell short of reality, for his path is 
indeed one of sunshine ; and as Lady Granville, the author- 
ess, continues her path of literary and domestic usefulness, 
proving to the full how very possible it is for woman to unite 
the two, and that our great poet* is right when, in contradic- 
tion to Moore’s shallow theory of the unfitness of genius to 
domestic happiness, he answered — “ It is not because they pos- 
sess genius that they make unhappy homes, but because they 
do not possess genius enough. A higher order of mind would 
enable them to see and feel all the beauty of domestic ties.” 


* Wordsworth. 


A FRAGMENT FROM JEWISH HISTORY. 


** Joy 1 joy I Spring hath como 1 
Bounding o’er the earth, 

Laughing in the insect’s hum, 

In the flow’ret’s birth. 

Ere his spirit springs above. 

Summer’s wreath to twine. 

Oh, what joy for me, my love! 

Then thou wilt be minel 

** Joy I joy ! though awhile, 

Dearest, we must part, 

Warmly will thy sunny smile 
Rest upon my heart. 

Spring the earth is greeting, lovo, 

With a crown of flowers ; 

For the hour of meeting, love, 

Sweeter hopes are ours.” 

So sung, in a rich, mellow, thougli somewhat subdued voice, 
a young man, as he stood beneath the window of a grim old 
mansion. The sun had but just risen, and sky and earth 
seemed still bathed in his soft rosy glow. Flowers of delicate 
form and many a brilliant tint were gemming the greensward, 
which looked fresh and bright as emerald. Fringed with 
hoary rocks and thick dark woods, lay the deep blue waters 
of the lovely Rhine, seeming as if the spirits of the early 
morning had flung on them a rich robe of golden sheen. Even 
the black forest in the far distance, and the old, apparently 
half-ruinous mansion itself, all but laughed in the glowing 
light ; hailing, as they did, the new birth of nature, as well 
as that of the day. Spring had, within the last few days, 
leaped from the arms of whiter ; and flowers and birds, and 
earth and sky, welcomed his birth, as with a very jubilee of 
gladness. 

The deep seclusion of the scene, however, was remarkable : 
castles and towns, convents and monasteries, generally studied 
11 


236 


HELON. 


the banks of the Rhine, even as early as the elose of the 
eleventh century, the period of our narrative ; but here there 
■was not a habitation of any kind visible, save this one old 
house and its out-door offices. 

It was a Hebrew school or college, the origin of which 
was so far removed into the past as to be involved in mystery 
From its extreme seclusion, it had remained undisturbed, 
when elsewhere every trace of Israel’s lo'ia'ity had been 
washed out in blood. Century after century beheld it occu- 
pied by a succession of venerable teachers, learned in ail the 
mysteries of their law, and faithful to its every ordinance ; 
by some few Hebrew families who, from being pupils, loved 
its peaceful seclusion too well to exchange it for the Gangers 
of towns ; and by some youths, brought there by anxious 
parents, or their own will, to learn such lessons as would bid 
them live to glorify their faith, or die to seal its truth with 
blood. 

The young minstrel, whose song we have given, had been 
one of these pupils since the age of ten, and was about return- 
ing to Worms, his native city, to see his widowed mother, 
from whom he had been parted fourteen years, obtain her 
blessing on his choice (the daughter of one of his teachers), 
and then return for his betrothed, either to dwell in this 
safe retreat or elsewhere, as circumstances might be. 

A knapsack was on his shoulder, and in his eager look 
upward as he sung, his cap had fallen off, and one of those 
countenances which, once seen, rivet themselves upon the 
heart, was fully displayed. It was purely spiritually noble ; 
expressive of every emotion which can elevate and rejoice, 
and utterly devoid of that abject mien and fearful glance, the 
brand which persecution laid on the Israelites of towns. 

A sweet face appeared for a minute at the window as the 
song ceased ; a smile whose sunny warmth the poet had not 
too glowingly described, a fond wave of the hand, and then 
the window was tenantless again, and the young man turned 
away, still humming — 

“ For the hour of meeting, love, 

Sweeter hopes are ours 

when he w'as joined by the companion for whom he had 
waited : a man some ten years his senior, dark and stern in 
aspect, as if every human emotion had been battled with and 
conquered. 


HELON. 


237 


“ J oy — ^hope ! Have such words meauiug for an Israelite?’' 
he said, bitterly. “ Art thou of the doomed and outcast race, 
and canst yet sing in the vain dream of joy? Knowest thou 
not the fate of Israel, when once looked on by man? The 
rack, cord, death ! Hast thou not heard, that in this new war 
of the accursed Nazarene, their holy war, the signal for march- 
ing is the death-shriek of the slaughtered Jews? Spires, Metz, 
Cologne, Treves, Presbourg, Prague, ask them the fate of Is- 
rael. and sing if thou canst. Ask yonder river, from whose 
kindly waters those who had sought their calm repose, rath r 
than wait the cruelty of man, were drawn forth and butchered 
on the blood-reeking land. Ask yon river the fate of the 
hundreds who threw themselves within it — and then sing of 
joy !” 

“ I do know these things, Arodi,” was the calm reply, 
though the flushed cheek denoted some feeling of pain. I 
know that for Israel there is only such joy as may be resigned 
at a moment’s call ; only such hope as looks beyond this 
world for perfection and fulfilment. Think you because, with 
a grateful heart and joyful song, I breathed forth a dream of 
earthly happiness, that I am less fitted than yourself to give 
up all of joy, hope, and love, if such be the will of God ?” 

“ It cannot be. You love, you are joyful. You have woven 
sweet dreams, whose destruction will bow you to the dust. 
Human afi’ections fetter your soul to earth. How can it give 
itself to God ?” 

“ Through the blessings He has given ; blessings which so 
fill my heart with love for Him, that without one murmur I 
would resign them at His call.” 

“ You think so now ; beware lest this, too, prove a dream. 
For me, hope and joy are as far from me as yon blue arch 
from the cold earth on which I see but my brethren’s blood.” 

“ Look beyond it, then,” answered H(,lon, fervently. 
“AVhy shoula there not be joy for Israel? Dark as is his 
present, so bright will be his future. As both have been pro- 
phesied, so both will be fulfilled.” 

He spoke in vain ; as well might he have striven to pour 
forth sunshine on the dark bosom of night, as infuse his spirit 
ill the heart of his companion. 

Their way being long, and travelling tedious, from the 
trackless forests and mountain torrents which they were re- 
peatedly compelled to cross, they found they had miscalculated 
their time, and that the solemn festival of the Passover, which 


238 


HELON, 


they bad hoped to celebrate in Worms, would fall some few days 
before they reached it. Remembering that a kind of hostelry^ 
kept by one of their brethren, lay but a few roods out of their 
way, they determined on abiding there till the festival was 
over. 

It was on the fourth day that a man rushed into the court, 
covered with dust and mud, and so exnausted as barely to be 
able to tell his horrible tale. Massacre and outrage again 
menaced the hapless Jews. He stated that, on the first day 
of Passover, as the procession of the Host had passed down 
the Jewish quarter of Worms, a cry arose that it had been 
insulted by two Jews, who had vanished directly afterwards. 
That, were not the real criminals given up, the whole Jewish 
population should be exterminated, without regard to age, sex, 
or rank. Seven days were allowed them to determine their 
own fate; a useless delay, for when all were innocent, who 
could avow guilt? The city gates were closed; not a Jew al- 
lowed egress from the town, and, at the imminent risk of his 
own life, the bearer of these horrible tidings had alone escaped. 

Darker and sterner grew the countenance of Arodi, as ho 
heard. He had neither relative nor friend amid the doomed, 
but once more the curse had fallen on his people, and he burst 
forth in fearful execration. 

‘‘Ye sang of joy,” he exclaimed, turning fiercely towards 
Helon, on whose face, though pale as marble, a strange yet 
beautiful light had fallen. “Sing on ! a joyous song to greet 
a mouldering home and murdered parent. Ye dared hope — 
ye dared be joyful — ’tis the wrathful voice of the avenger !” 

“ Peace, Arodi ; they shall yet be saved ” 

“ Saved ! bid the ravening wolf release the lamb, the hun- 
gry lion his fought-for prey.” Helen’s sole answer was so 
thrilling in its low brief words, that Arodi started several 
paces back, gazing on him, as if he had doubted or understood 
not the meaning of his words. “ Canst thou — wouldst thou— 
what ! resign all ?” he rather permitted to fall from his lips 
than said. 

“ I do not resign them — ’tis but their exchange for bliss 
which is unfading.’' 

“ And Admah — Helon, hast thou thought of herV' 

“ Thought of her !” and the strong convulsion passing over 
Helon’s face and frame was indeed sufl&cient answer. Yet he 
added calmly, after some minutes’ pause, “ For this she, too, 
would resign me. Her spirit speaks within me, bidding me dc 


HELON. 


239 


what my full soul prompts. What is the happiness of one 
compared with the lives of hundreds?” 

The soul of the dark, stern man shook within him. He 
battled with emotion for the first time in vain. Falling on 
Ilelon’s neck, these words broke forth in sobs : “ Forgive me, 
oh, forgive me, brother ! I despised, contemned thee ; yet from 
thee I learn my duty. ‘ Whither thou goest, I will go.’ What 
thou doest, I will do. Brother, make me as thyself.” 

But one night intervened, and the wretched Jews of Worms, 
in the stern stillness of utter despair, awaited their fearfux 
doom. The festive rejoicing which, even in the darkest era of 
persecution, ever attended the Passover, was changed intp 
deepest mourning. Not one ray of human hope illumined this 
horrible darkness. The similar fate of hundreds, aye, thou- 
sands, even millions, yet rung in their ears. He who alone 
could save had turned His face in wrath from his afflicted 
people. They had but one consolation, and mothers clasped 
closer their unconscious babes, and husbands their trembling 
wives, in the one glad thought that none would be left to la 
ment the other — they should die together. 

Night fell, calmly and softly; oh, who that looked up on 
those radiant heavens, losing all of earth in the thoughts of 
the hundreds and hundreds of unknown worlds filling the vast 
courts of trackless space, can imagine without a shudder, the 
mighty mass of human passion and human suffering which one 
little corner of the globe contains? Who that feels for one 
brief minute the pressure of infinity upon his soul, speaking, 
as it will, in the solemn stillness of spiritual night, can come 
back to earthly things, without shuddering at the awful amount 
of countless cruelties worked by insect man, without feeling 
that we have indeed 

“N’eed of patient faith below 
To clear away the mysteries of such woe ?” 

There was one lone watcher of the silent night, but he 
thought not of these things. For above an hour a tall muffled 
figure had been standing without the window of a lowly J ew- 
ish dwelling, gazing within, and wrapt up in the strong emo- 
tions which the gaze called forth. A lamp was burning on a 
table, round which a mother and her children sat. Years had 
passed, long years, since the lone watcher had been among 
those loved ones, save in dreams ; and now, while his whole 
heart yearned to fling himself upon that mother’s neck, and 


240 


HELON. 


feel her kiss, and claim her blessing — to clasp hands once more 
with those loved companions of his childhood, now sprung in- 
to sweet blooming youth — he dared not follow feeling’s im- 
pulse. Better his own heartsick yearning, the agonized throb 
of human love and human fear, than the momentary bliss of 
meeting, to part again for ever. 

He had seen the burst of terror, of the wild clinging to 
life, even such life as theirs, natural to youth, soothed by a 
mother’s prayer. He had seen them twine hand in hand with 
hers, and lift their bright heads to heaven in that meek, en- 
during constancy, the undying attribute of persecuted Israel ; 
and then the mother was alone, and the watcher beheld the 
calm a brief while give way, and natural anguish take its 
place. 

“ My God ! thou wilt spare one,” fell on the hushed air, 
my first-born, first- loved, my beautiful Helon ! I had thought 
to look on him again, but I bless thee that thou hast refused 
my prayer. Bless him, oh, bless him. Father ! my own bright 
boy !” 

Was it her own low sob she heard, or its echo, that she so 
started even from so much grief, and looked fearfully round? 
There seemed a shadow between the window and the faint 
moonlight, but ere she could trace it to a human form it had 
gone. 

The morning was clothed in dull, leaden clouds ; and, fiock- 
ing from their dwellings, as was their wont, on the seventh 
day of Passover, in holiday attire, and with composed appear- 
ance, every Jewish family sought the synagogue. Divine ser- 
vice commenced, proceeded, and was concluded without inter- 
ruption. Scarcely, however, had they reached the outer court 
to return to their homes, than fearful shouts smote the ear, 
waxing louder, hoarser, more terrible with every passing mo- 
ment. On came the infuriated crowd, a dark impenetrable 
phalanx, increasing in every street, and fearfully illumined with 
blazing torches held aloft ; blades gleaming in the red flame ; 
clubs, axes, pitchforks, every weapon that first came to hand. 
On they came, wrought into yet wilder frenzy, yet deeper 
thirst for human blood, by their own mad shouts, and the 
lurid flames that, as they rushed down the Jewish quarter, 
marked their progress. And how stood their victims? So 
firm, so motionless in the shadow of their house of prayer, 
that even the wild mob, when they first beheld them, fell back 
a moment powerless. Formed in a compact square, women, 


HELOr<. 


241 


children, and tottering age in the centre, youth and manhood 
stood around, with arms folded and head erect ; not a limb, 
not a muscle moved ; not a sound broke forth, even when their 
fiendish foes poured down and faced them. It was an awful 
pause ; lasting not a minute, yet seeming to be hours ; and 
then with brandished arms and wilder cries, they rushed on 
to the work of death. 

“ Back !” exclaimed a voice not loud nor stern, but as 
thrillingly distinct and sweet, that it was heard by every in 
dividual of both parties, and involuntarily compelled obedi 
ence. “ Back !— touch not the innocent. Ye have demanded 
the criminals, behold them ! Ye have sworn their lives shall 
suffice — take them, torture them as ye list ; but touch not, on 
your peril, touch not these !” 

Two strangers stood suddenly between the murderers and 
the victims, as the unknown voice spake, the one in the love- 
liest bloom of youth, the other in manhood’s prime. With an 
appalling yell of disappointed malice, hate, and aggravated 
wrath, the fierce crowd rushed forwards, and closed round the 
voluntary martyrs. And here we pause, for how may the pen 
linger op the horrible tortures, the agonizing death inflicted 
on these noble men ; or the horror of the stunned yet liberated 
Israelites, in being forced by their tormentors to witness the 
fate of their preservers? Yet no groan escaped the victims, 
to glut the long pent up fury of their foes ; no word to reveal 
to their brethren whence they came or who they were, or that 
they had spoken but to save. 

The poet’s prophecy was fulfilled : “ Ere spring had chang- 
ed to summer,” Helen and his faithful Admah had met again, 
where hope was lost in fulfilment, temporal joy in an eternity 
of bliss. The summer flowers had twined their clinging ten 
drils round a lowly tomb of pure white marble in the grave 
yard of that old mansion, Helen’s home so long, and half 
tiding the single word “ Admah” with their radiant clusters, 
whispered in sweet breath to the passing breeze the bliss of a 
pure spirit, so early freed from the detaining fetters of a 
broken heart. 

To this day the names of the martyrs rest unknown ; but 
the two lamps still kept burning to their memory, in the syn- 
agogue of Worms, testify the truth of this fearful tale, and 
bear witness to a faith, a self devotedness in scorned and hated 
Israel, unsurpassed in the annals of the world ! 


AN AUTUMN WALK. 


It was a lovely afternoon, in the fall of the year ; that season 
by many deemed the most melancholy of them all. The fallen 
leaves, the decay of vegetation, the absence of flowers, the trees 
shorn of their summer glory, are to some such painful emblems 
of man’s estate, that they shrink in strange and melancholy 
trembling from the calm and pensive aspect of autumn, as if 
the death of Nature whispered of their own. Yet it is not so. 
Autumn, even in its .sadness, looks beyond the grave, and 
breathes of immortality. The shorn tree will put on its gala 
dress again ; the withered hedge will send forth the loveliest 
flowers. Earth, burdened now in seeming with its emblems of 
decay, in reality derives thence her nourishment and strength, 
and will spring up again, bright and beautiful, strong and 
smiling in her reawakened joy. And shall man alone, amid 
the creation of Omnific love, pass hence for ever? No, oh, no ! 
As a flower to bloom and be cut down, so as a flower will ho 
burst forth again in a lovelier world and never-ending spring. 

The day was well suited for such consoling musing ; there 
was a balmy freshness in the air, a clearness in the atmo- 
sphere, in the cloudless expanse of azure, stretching above and 
around ; a warmth and glow in the sun, even as he approached 
the west, unusual to the season. And there was beauty, too, 
in the landscape; or the fountain of enjoyment which Nature 
had unsealed in our hearts, bathed the scene in its own bright 
colouring, as in those exquisite lines of Coleridge : — 

^ ... “"We receive but what we give, 

And in our hearts alone does Nature live ; 

Ours her wedding garment, and oui-s her shroud. 

And would we aught receive of higher worth. 

Than that inanimate, cold world allow’d 
To the poor, loveless, ever-anxious crowd? 

Ahi from the soul itself must issue forth 
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud. 

Enveloping the earth.” 


LUCY. 


243 


The trees lifted up their graceful heads to the circling 
heaven ; every brancjh and every spray clearly defined against 
the blue; so still, so moveless, they looked like pencil-sketches 
of exquisite delicacy and softness. Then often, as in beauti- 
ful relief, started up a gigantic holly, every leaf green and 
glossy as in the richness of summer, with clusters of its bright 
scarlet berries standing out against the dark leaf, like sprays 
of coral. Ever and anon, a break in the hedge displayed 
towering hills and far-stretching meadows, green and glisten- 
ing from the late rains ; while bold crags, chained by the gray 
lichen and golden stonecrop, and patches of gloomy firs, 
frowning like grim shadows in the sunshine, proclaimed the 
mountainous district to which we were ipproaching, and 
heightened, by contrast, the beauty all around. There was 
something in the whole .aspect of Nature so calm, so cheerful, 
bereft as she was of every flower and leaf, and all her rich 
summer hoards, that made us compare her to one on whom 
affliction has fallen with a heavy hand, whose flowers of life 
are withered, but who can yet lift up heart and brow, with 
serene and placid faith, to that heaven where the vanished 
flowers wait her smile again. 

The very sounds, too, were in unison with the scene. The 
sweet note of many an English bird, not in full chorus of 
melody, as in the warmth and luxury of summer, but one or 
two together, answered by others as they floated to and fro in 
the field of azure, or paused a moment on the quivering spray. 
Then came the twinkling gush of a silvery stream, seeming, 
by its blithesome voice, to rejoice in its increase of waters 
from previous heavy rains. Then, sparkling and leaping in 
the glittering rays, like a shower of silver, a rustic watermill 
became visible through the trees ; the music of its splash and 
foam bringing forth the voice of memory yet more thrillingly 
than before, for it was a sound of home We paused; when 
suddenly another sound floated on the air, of more mournful 
meaning. It was the solemn toll of a church bell, distinct 
though distant, possessing all that simple sanctity peculiar to 
the country — that voice of wailing which comes upon the 
heart as if the departed, whom it mourns, had had its dwell- 
ing there, claiming kindred alike with our sorrows and our 
joys. We hurried on, and just as we neared the ivy-mantled 
church, the solemn chanting of a psalm by several young and 
most sweet voices sounded in the dim distance, and, becoming 
nearer and more near, proclaimed the approach of the funeral 


‘^44 


/.UCY. 


train. The peculiar mode of tolling the bell, as is custjmary 
in those primitive districts of the north of England, had 
already betrayed the sex of the departed, and with forebod 
ing spirits we listened for the age. We counted twenty-one 
of those mournful chimes, and then they sunk in silence 
solemn as their sound. 

The church was situated midway on the ascent of a hill 
or rather mount, guarded by a thick grove of yews and firs, 
their sad and pensive foliage assimilating well with the olden 
shrine. The ivy had clambered over the slender buttress, 
clustering round the old square belfry, decking age wdth 
beauty, and moss and lichen pressed forth in fantastic patches 
on the roof. The green earth was filled with k wly graves, 
thickly twined with evergreen shrubs and hardy flowering 
plants. Headstones and marble tombs there were ; some so 
crusted over by the cold finger of Time, that even the briefest 
record of those who slept beneath was lost for ever ; and others 
gleaming pure and white in the declining sun, seeming to whis- 
per hope and faith in the very midst of desolation and death. 

The clergyman stood at the churchyard gate, waiting the 
arrival of the corpse. He was leaning against the stone pillar 
which held the hinges of the gate, his head buried in his hands, 
and his bowed and drooping aspect breathing a more than com- 
mon love. His figure was so peculiarly youthful, we wondered 
at his full canonical costume. 

The psalm continued ; now low, as mourning the departed 
— now in solemn rejoicing that a ransomed soul was free. The 
snow-white pall which covered the coffin, the white dresses and 
hoods of the bearers and the young girls, who, to the number 
of eight or ten, headed the train, confirmed the mournful tale 
which the bell had already told. A young girl of one-and- 
twenty summers was passing to her last long home. There 
were but few chief mourners, and these seemed struggling to 
subdue their grief to the composed and holy stillness meet for 
such an hour. As the train entered the last winding path of 
the ascent, the bell began again to toll, and the sound seemed 
to rouse the young minister from his all-absorbing grief. He 
started, with a visible shudder, and the expression of agony 
that his face revealed haunted us for many a long day. There 
was a strong effort at control: and he turned to meet the 
corpse, repeating, as he did so, in low impressive tones, part of 
the burial service. He walked at the head of the train to the 
place appointed — the centre of a little cluster of yews ; and 


LUCY. 


245 


there, in silent awe, we watched the ceremony of the inter 
ment. 

An aged minister had been among the train of mourners, 
and, as they entered the churchyard, had approached the offici 
ating clergyman, evidently entreating to perform the melam 
choly office in his stead. The reply was merely a strong grasp 
of the hand and a mournful shake of the head ; and the old 
man fell back to his place, his eyes still fixed on his young 
brother, and gradually they filled with large tears, which fell 
unconsciously, and seemed more for the living than the dead. 
Once only the service was wholly inarticulate, and the old man 
drew near hurriedly, as fearing the calm of mental torture 
must at length give way ; but still he struggled on, though 
the tone in which the awful words — “ earth to earth, and dust 
to dust,” now at length pronounced, was as if the very spirit 
had been wrung to give them voice. Never did the sound of 
filling in the grave fall with such cold and heavy weight on 
our hearts as at that moment, yet still, spell- bound, we linger- 
ed. 

The early twilight of autumn had deepened the beautiful 
blue of the heavens, as the service concluded, and with low, 
subdued chant the mourning train departed. The slender 
forms of the young girls, in their snowy robes, gleaming 
strangely and fitfully through the darkening shadows of the 
winding paths; their sweet, young voices sounding almost 
like spirit music, as they faded, fainter and more faint in the 
far distance. 

Still the young clergyman remained, pale, rigid, moveless, 
gazing on the newly-turued-earth, till he fancied he was alone 
with the homes of the dead ; and then, with a low, smothered 
groan of anguish, he fiung himself on the damp grave, clasping 
it with his outstretched arms, pressing his cold lips upon it, 
his whole frame quivering with the efibrt to restrain his burst- 
ing sobs. The old man hurried forwards and laid his trem- 
bling hand on his arm, the tears streaming down his furrowed 
face the while, and with faltering accents conjured him to take 
comfort, for his poor mother’s sake. 

“ I will, I will,” was the agonized reply. “ Leave me, 
leave me to my God. He will bring peace. I see but the 
cold grave now ; but faith will come again. She is free, re- 
joicing. She will know now how much, how faithfully — but 
leave me, leave me now.” And the old man turned sorrow- 
iugly away ; and softly and sadly, for such grief might not 


246 


LUCY. 


bear a witness, we departed also — our last Imgering glance 
revealing the youthful mourner kneeling in voiceless suppli* 
cation on the sod. 

To the aged minister so often mentioned we were indebted 
for that true English hospitality still so warmly proffered in 
these “ nooks of the world and in listening to the following 
sad and simple story, the evening hours sped on. 

Lucy Lethvyn was the daughter of a rich merchant, in one 
of our large commercial cities of the north of England. The 
village of Elmsford had been the site alike of her childhocd 
and happy schooldays ; and so associated was it with hours of 
peace and joyance, far removed from the strife and confusion 
around her city home, that her wonted summer visit to its 
shades and flowers was ever welcomed with delight. 

At the vicarage of Elmsford, then occupied by our vene- 
rable host, Mr. Evelyn, Mrs. Lethvyn and her daughters were 
constant visitors ; and there it was that Nevil Herbert, the 
young clergyman who had so deeply interested us, again met 
Lucy after a lapse of seven years. Formerly they had been 
frequent companions, from the near relationship of their 
parents ; and Nevil had been accustomed to think of Lucy as 
the gentle, artless, affectionate little girl of ten summers, he 
had last beheld her. Her occasional letters, breathing the 
same fresh, childlike spirit, increased this illusion. She had 
called him brother, and often wished he had indeed been suoh ; 
and he had laughingly acknowledged and promised to value 
the relationship. In those seven years of separation, however, 
Nevil’s lot had changed. At eighteen he lost his father, and 
the same stroke cast him and his mother penniless on the cold 
world. A rich relation promised to give him a collegiate 
education, preparatory to his taking orders, a living being in 
his gift. The ofler, benevolently made as it was, might not 
be rejected ; though to Nevil, the parting with his mother 
for her also to endure the miseries of dependence, was fraught 
with such anguish, that he would willingly have worked for 
her in the meanest capacity, so that she might still feel free. 

Mrs. Herbert was, however, much too unselfish to permit 
this : she soothed, urged, and in part comforted him. by the 
anticipation of the time when they might be once again to- 
gether, assuring him that to contribute to that joyful end, 
much more painful alternatives could not be borne than the 
one that she had chosen. 

On all that Nevil Herbert had to endure in college w« 


LUCY. 


247 


have no space to linger. Suffice it he was poor — he was de- 
pendent ; and however lavish may be the kindness and bene 
volence bestowed, it will not take away the sting contained in 
these two words, or permit the taking that station in the world 
for which such spirits pine. It is strange how often poverty 
will change to reserve, and bitterness, and pride, dispositions 
which in affluence would have been humble, and loving, and 
open as the day And sad, oh ! how bitterly sad it is that 
the cold, heartless world should fling such scorn and contempt 
upon that word, and shrink, from the children of ptverty, 
ncble-gifted though they be, as they would from crime, and, 
by a thousand nameless slights and petty provocations, add a 
hundred-fold to the misery already theirs. Philosophy may 
preach, and religion soothe ; but while such things are, poverty 
must ever be regarded as a doom of horror and of dread. 

Nevil Herbert’s peculiarly sensitive nature caused him to 
feel these evils even more keenly than the multitude so situat- 
ed ; and therefore the rest and peace of the vicarage of Elms- 
ford was, indeed, to him almost heaven upon earth. There 
nothing ever galled him, but all around breathed the balm of 
that true sympathy and appreciation, which, raising the droop- 
ing spirit to its proper level, restores its self-esteem, and con- 
sequently its happiness. 

Nevil was just two-and-twenty when his ideal of female 
loveliness and innocence burst upon him in most exquisite 
reality, through the childlike loveliness and artlessness of Lucy. 
Alike the favourites of the vicar, he rejoiced to see them to- 
gether, and never dreamed that to his petted Nevil danger 
might thence accrue. To him Lucy was still a child, as so 
she was to herself and to all around her, but to one, and that 
one, unhappily, was Nevil. He guessed not her influence till 
he returned to his solitary studies, and then he felt, too keenly, 
that, despite his every resolution, he loved — and loved in vain ; 
not only from their difierent stations, but that it was still only 
as a brother she regarded him. 

The next recess found them again together, more closely 
than before, for Lucy was the old man’s guest equally with 
himself ; but a change had come upon her — not towards 
Nevil, but in herself. The child had sprung into the woman 
— the incipient germs of thought and feeling burst into the 
full-blossomed flowers. There was a deeper tone in her 
sweet voice, a more intense light in her radiant eye, a fuller 
sentiment in her bright smile. Yet to Nevil’s eye alone 


248 


LUCY. 


these things were visible. None other, even of those whc 
loved her best, saw the change; but Nevil read by the light 
of his own feelings, and they told him she, too, loved — and 
love<l another. 

It was even so, and from her own lips the artless tale was 
poured into his ear. She called and felt him brother, and 
claimed his sympathy as such ; feeling that, did she conceal 
anything which concerned her happiness from one so true, 
and kind, and good as Nevil Herbert, she wronged him, and 
deserved to lose his friendship altogether : and even at such a 
moment Nevil’s martyr spirit did not forsake him. The 
hand, indeed, was cold and damp which pressed the fairy one 
held out to him, as she spoke, but the lip did not quiver, nor 
the voice falter, in which he assured her that her confidence 
was not misplaced — that her happiness and interest were 
dear to him as his own. 

A few weeks brought Mr. and Mrs. Lethvyn and Mor- 
daunt Lyndsey to the vicarage. Handsome, intelligent, and 
animated, there was much in the latter to possess and win. 
He had been Lucy’s partner at her first ball, and by the 
magic charm of his varied conversation, the magnetic power 
which fascinates at a first interview, and calling forth the 
yearning to know more, gradually changes into earnest and 
lasting love, fixed that evening indelibly on her mind and 
heart. ' 

It is in vain to argue either on the birth, the nature, or 
the duration of love. It may spring into existence uncon 
sciously ; becoming so completely part of our being, that it 
remains unknown until some sudden shock of joy or griet 
awakens us from our rest, and dooms us to an almost over- 
powering sense of joy or an equal intensity of grief; or one 
little hour may reveal depths within the human heart, whose 
existence was never known before — will awaken restless, 
baseless imaginings, that linger, strengthening with every 
interview, till the earthly fate is fixed for ever. And how 
may we argue on this, how seek its explanation? Yet who, 
that hath once opened the wide, mysterious volume of the 
human heart, will deny that so it is? 

It was so with Lucy. She who had remained free and 
childlike in her intercourse with Nevil Herbert (though her 
character assim.lated with his far more than with Lyndsey’s), 
was chained and bound for ever beneath the magic of Mor- 
daunt Lyndsey’s voice and smile. The spell of their first 


LUCY. 


249 


interview lingered to the second, and each day, each weeli 
strengthened Lucy’s love. 

Mordaunt Lyndsey was an orphan, and not rich enough 
to wed a portionless bride ; but, unlike Nevil, as he knew not 
the privation and bitterness of dependence, so was he utterly 
ignorant of those finely organized feelings which could debar 
his association with the wealthier than himself. He made 
his way in the world, for he had good connections, well- 
sounding friends, and so was courted and received. It was 
some little time before Mr. Lethvyn could give his consent 
io their union, his ambition looking higher for his Lucy, but 
his paternal affection was stronger than his ambition ; and 
perceiving how completely her happiness was bound up with 
Mordaunt’s, for whom he himself felt prepossessed, he not 
only gave unqualified approval, but settled on his darling a 
portion almost startling in its profuseness, and promised his 
influence to get Mordaunt entered as partner in the firm. 
Lucy was still so young, that her parents prevailed on 
L3mdsey, though very much against his inclination, to wait 
SIX months, and celebrate their nuptials with the completion 
of her eighteenth year. 

It had been with perfect sincerity that Nevil Herbert had 
promised Lucy to comply with her artless entreaty ; and, like 
Mordaunt, not only for her dear sake, but from the same 
honourable and religious principles which actuate all his 
conduct. Why, he asked himself, should he hate and shun a 
fellow creature because he was happier than himself? and 
could he have esteemed as he wished, and hoped to do, young 
Lyndsey, this principle would have been followed by a 
friendship as disinterested as was felt by man. 

But tnis could not be. Ilendered watchful and pene- 
trative by his pure and most unselfish affection, a very, very brief 
interval of intimate association convinced him that Mordaunt 
was not a character worthy of one like Lucy. She would 
need, as a wife, tenderness as unvarying as it was exclusive, 
sympathy in all her high, pure feelings, as in detestation of 
all worldliness and art ; encouragement in her simple duties 
and tastes ; in a "word, love as faithful, as clinging, as constant 
as her own, and this Nevil saw Mordaunt could not give 
Even now, Lucy was not the world to him as he was to her, 
and Herbert could not argue that such difference was but in 
nature, that man could not love as woman j for his own aching 
spirit told him the creed was false. 


250 


LUCY 


Time passed. The Lethvyns and Mordaunt returned ta 
their city homes, and Nevil to his solitary studies. Weeks 
sped on to months, the eventful day was near at hand, and 
Lucy’s bridal attire nearing its completion. The nuptials 
were to be on a scale almost princely; for as princes did 
Lethvyn’s ambitious spirit regard the merchants of England, 
forgetting, in his vast schemes and golden visions, that the 
wealth of yesterday may be poverty the morrow. The ex- 
pected bridal was the talk of the city ; anxiety for her child’s hap- 
piness the only thought of the mother ; love for Mordaunt the 
sole existence of Lucy ; and therefore it was not very strange 
that, by these severally interested parties, Lethvyn’s unusually 
harassed countenance and excited manner were unnoticed. 
Ten days before that appointed for the bridal, however, the 
blow fell — the firm failed. Lethvyn was utterly and irretriev- 
ably ruined ; unable, by the dishonest conduct of one of the 
partners, even to pay one shilling in the pound. 

The usual excitement which such events in provincial cities 
always create, was heightened by the universal sympathy for 
the principal sufferers. Lethvyn’s profuse benevolence and 
affability having made him generally beloved, many pressed 
forward eager to prove what they felt ; but the unfortunate 
man turned from them with a heart-sickness, a loathing of 
himself and the whole world, which no human consolation 
could remove. 

That her father should be so prostrated by his failure was 
a matter of grief, but scarcely of surprise, to Lucy ; but that 
it could in any way affect Mordaunt, was a mystery she could 
not solve. Loving him, and him alone, with such love that 
she cared not how lowly was their dwelling — nay, rejoicing 
that she could now prove her love in a hundred little caress- 
ing ways, which in a wealthier and more influential station 
would be denied her — how could the thought enter her pure 
mind, that in his affection her wealth had equal resting with 
herself? — that his ardent desire for the speedy celebration of 
their marriage originated as much to possess her dowry as 
herself ? the insecure tenure of merchants’ wealth never hav- 
ing for one instant faded from his mind. 

To Elmsford, at the earnest entreaty of Mr. Evelyn, the 
ruined family retired ; but vain were all exertions of his 
friends to rouse Mr. Lethvyn from his despondency; he 
drooped and drooped, and there were times when he would fix 
his eyes on his Lucy with such an expression of intense suffer 


LUCY, 


251 


ing, of foreboding misery, that she would fly to him fold her 
arms about his neck, and weep, and then conjure him to teil her 
what he feared ; and then he would fold her closer and closer, 
the big tears rolling down cheeks on which the furrows of age 
had been hollowed in a single week, but the cause of such emo- 
tion never found a voice. 

Too soon, however, did the cause reveal itself. With every 
manifestation of strong feeling and real ajOfection, Mordaunt 
Lyndsey confessed that to give Lucy the home and comforts 
which he felt she so deserved and needed, he had not the 
adequate means. They were both still young, and he would 
go abroad, seek his fortune in India, where a lucrative 
situation had been offered him ; and if, indeed, his Lucy 
would love him still, through absence, and distance, and 
time, he would in a few brief years either send for her to 
join him, or return for her himself, as circumstances would 
permit. 

Pale, rigid, almost breathless, Lucy sat while her lover 
spoke, her hands pressed tightly one over the other, and every 
feature still almost to sternness ; but as he fixed the full glance 
of his eyes on hers — and they seemed to glisten in tears as 
he called her name in that accent of love which ever thrilled 
through her heart and frame — she fell upon his bosom, and, 
with a passionate burst of weeping, besought him not to leave 
her, W ere there not some sweet spots in England — oh ! 
surely there were — where they might live, even with his mode- 
rate mpans, in comparative affluence? Solitude, privation — 
all more welcome, rather than part with him. 

And so sacrifice your first bloom, your glowing youth, 
my Lucy, and struggle on through life, wasting your best 
years, buried in a wild, amid rude boors, who could neither 
understand nor love you.” 

“ What care I for others ? Have I not you, dearset Mor- 
daunt ? Do I seek, ask for, heed aught else ?” 

“ For that very love I would not so sacrifice you, sweet 
one ; and — oh ! Lucy, forgive me — man is different to wo- 
man. My spirit is restless and ambitious. I could not live 
in the retirement of an English cottage, and restlessness might 
seem like irritability; and then — then, Lucy, you would — 
you must cease to love me !” 

She lifted up her sweet face, and, oh ! the expression of 
unutterable sadness upon it. A chill had fallen on her yearn- 
ing heart, stagnating its every bounding pulse — a sickness 


•252 


T.ucr. 


and dreai more agonizing than parting’s self; for, for the 
first time, she felt “ he does not love as .1 love but she spoke 
no word, she uttered no sigh — it was but the shadow on that 
lovely face which betrayed the cloud that had buried the 
sunshine of her heart ; and when with words of repentant 
agony, almost in tears, Mordaunt flung himself on his knees 
before her. covering her cold hand with kisses, and implor- 
ing her not to doubt his love, his truth, because he had thus 
spoken, she tried to smile, to forget herself for him, drawing 
from him with such sweet gentleness his plans and wishes, 
that his spirits returned, and he forgot even the fancy that he 
had given her pain, or that the word of a moment could break 
the fond dream of months. 

Mordaunt Lyndsey went to India. We may not linger on 
that bitter parting, or on the feelings of either, save to say, 
that with Mordaunt sorrow was so transient, that ere the long 
voyage was completed, new scenes, new hopes, new wishes 
had obtained such dominion there was scarcely a void remain- 
ing. With Lucy could this be? Alas ! she w^as a young and 
loving woman ; and in those words we have our answer. Nor 
was she one who had ever so sought outward excitement and 
enjoyments, as to find in them relief from anxiety, or rest 
from sorrow. The simple, trusting religion of her own heart 
— the refreshing and soothing influences of nature — the calm 
repose of seeking the happiness of others, of devotion to all 
who gave her the sweet meed of affection ; these were her 
consolations, and enabled her to meet her heart’s deep loneli- 
ness with cheerfulness and smiles. And when Mr. Lethvyn 
sunk gradually away, it seemed not only with individual and 
present sorrows, but 'with the dim forebodings of his child’s 
future, it was Lucy who soothed and comforted her mother, 
and, by her meek and gentle influence, restored peace and se- 
renity to their lowly cottage, and robbed even the memory of 
death of its lingering sting. 

And towards Mordaunt what were her feelings? Though 
the conviction that his love was not as hers never left her 
mind, her affection was too pure and true to know the shadow 
of a change. She thought it was but the diverse nature of 
man and woman ; that the varied pursuits, the very strength 
of the one prevented the exclusiveness, the devotedness of the 
other, and her gentle spirit turned longingly to the time when 
she should be all his own ; and when, perhaps, tired of excite- 
ment and ambiticn, his heart would turn to his home and to 


LUCY. 


253 


herself for rest and peace, and she would he to him, indeed 
almost as he had ever been to her. 

His truth she never doubted. Deception, fickleness oi 
caprice, unkindness or neglect, were things unknown to her ; 
and how then could she associate them with the earthly idol 
her soul enshrined ? She had carried the guilclessness. the 
innocence, the freshness of the child into the deeper feelings, 
the clinging devotedness of the woman. Her being was wrapt 
in the beautiful halo her fancy had flung round another, and 
did a storm disperse that halo, it woul(^ have crushed her in 
the same destroying blast. 

It was this childlike confiding spirit, the rays of her own 
heart, which shed such warmth and glow over Mordaunt’a 
letters ; for, by spirits more exacting and suspicious, the vital 
spark from the heart, giving life to the words of the head, 
would have been found wanting. 

In the second year of their separation, Mr. Evelyn was 
raised to a deanery in one of the adjoining counties, and his 
former living became the property of Nevil Herbert, who had 
just received his ordination. Again, therefore, was this noble- 
hearted young man thrown into the closest intimacy with the 
gentle object of his ill-fated attachment, and in circumstances 
which could not fail to strengthen its endurance and its force. 
The barrier between wealth and poverty had been shivered — 
Lucy was now but his equal ; nay, circumstances had rather 
placed him above her. An unexpected legacy, and some re- 
covered debts of his late father, had given him not only in- 
dependence, but competence ; and he could now have offered 
her the home, the simple comforts and enjoyments which the 
more he knew her, the more he felt were all she needed for 
her happiness. Her friendship, the regard of her poor widow- 
ed mother, the delight with which ever the young Margaret 
welcomed his visits, the consciousness that he was of use to 
them, all prevented his keeping aloof, as perhaps would have 
been better for his peace : besides, how could he do so with- 
out some cause ? — he, whose adversity their prosperity had 
soothed and blessed ! No, better the torture of lingering in 
her presence, feeling she was the property of another, and that 
other, one who loved not, valued not as he did, than be, even 
in seeming, one of the butterfly crowd, who spoit in the sun- 
shine to fly from the storm. And though repeatedly alone to- 
gether, though thrown in constant association, intimate and 
affectionate, in very truth as a brother with a sister, nevei 


254 


LUCY. 


once in those eighteen months did Nevil Herbert, by sign oi 
word, betray to Lucy, or to any other, even to his much-lovod 
mother, the dread secret which bowed his heart and paled his 
cheek, and dashed his youth with the calm seriousness — the 
quiet hush of age. 

It was three years after Mordaunt Lyndsey’s departure 
that the longed-for summons came. He could not return for 
her himself, his situation would not permit his absence for so 
long a time ; but if, indeed, she loved him still sufficiently 
10 encounter the miseries of a long voyage, of a life in India, 
the banishment from mother, sister, friends — all for him 
alone, the sooner their term of suffering and separation closed, 
the happier for them both ; but if time had cooled the enthu- 
siasm of her love — if one feeling of regret, however faint, 
bound her to England — one emotion of dread accompanied 
the idea of the voyage, or the thought of dwelling in a strange 
and dangerous land — he released her from her engagement. 
She was free. He besought her to think well ere she decided ; 
that he could not, dared not, urge her to make such a weighty 
sacrifice for him. He did not dilate on his own feelings, but 
if Lucy marked the omission, she believed he had done so 
purposely, that no thought of him should bias her decision. 
Yet even what appeared to her guileless spirit his unselfish 
resignation of personal happiness for her sake, could not re- 
move the bitter anguish it was to feel, that even now, tried as 
she had been through absence and time, he did not, could not, 
understand the might, the devotedness of her love. 

“ I will go to him — he shall learn how much I love him, 
if he know it not now,” was her inward ejaculation ; and at 
that moment Nevil Herbert entered the room. She welcomed 
him gladly, for she needed him even more than usual ; and in 
agitated acomts entered at once on the subject which engrossed 
her, pausing, in sudden fear, as she beheld Nevil’s very lips 
grow white, and the damp drops standing like beads on his 
high forehead. 

“Nevil, dear — dear Nevil, you are ill; and I, selfish as I 
am, prevent your going home to rest. You are more than 
tired. Pray let me get something for you.” 

She laid both hands on his arms as she spoke, looking up 
in his agitated face with an expression of such anxious affec- 
tion, that it was with difficulty Nevil could restrain himself 
from snatching her to his bosom, and pouring forth the agony 
which at that moment well-nigh prostrated mind and frame ,• 


LUCY. 


255 


but he did not. Even at that moment religion and virtue 
were triumphant ; he conquered the wild impulse of passion, 
assured her it was hut passing faintness, which a glass of water 
would remove ; and when she flew to fetch it, h^e bowed his 
nead upon his hands in prayer, and, on her return, received it 
with his own meek, soul-felt smile. 

With all the artless confidence of her nature, Lucy im- 
parted every feeling which that letter caused, except its pain, 
for that would seem reproach on Mordaunt. She would de- 
part herself for answer — to write first would be but waste of 
time. The term of parting known, it was better foi her 
mother as for herself to be spared the suffering of anticipa- 
tion ; besides, her uncle only waited for her to set sail for 
India ; — his wife went with him, and such an opportunity 
might not occur again. 

And what could Nevil Herbert answer? Could he re- 
iterate Mordaunt’s own counsel, and beseech her to ponder well 
ere her final decision ? A chill for her had fallen on his heart. 
He hade her repeat again and again that part of Lyndsey’s 
letter which she had confided to him ; and each time confirmed 
the dread conviction, that it was in no spirit of self-sacrifice 
Mordaunt had written, but that the engagement hung upon 
him as a weight and chain, from which he longed to be re- 
leased, yet shrunk from the dishonour of breaking it himself 
In vain Nevil struggled with the idea; it would force itself 
upon his mind, regard it which way he would. Could he but 
have believed she was going to happiness, he would not have 
paused till all in his power was done to forward it; but, as it 
was, the chaos of that fond and faithful heart no words are 
adequate to describe. He felt she was going to misery, which 
he was denied all power, all possibility of averting — nay, 
which he was compelled, by a stern peremptory destiny, to ad- 
vise and forward. 

A few words must suffice to narrate Lucy’s departure from 
her native shores, and uneventful voyage. Doting as she did 
upon her mother, yet so strong, so omnipotent, was that young 
girl’s love for her betrothed, that even this pang was assuaged 
by the intense delight which even to think of gazing on his 
face, of listening to his voice again, never, never more on the 
earth to be divided, emanated over her whole being. The 
h*ng weary months of the voyage were beguiled b}" such 
fond visions ; they told of dangers, of hovering storms, and 
«he smiled, as if love could guard her even from these ; and 


256 


LUCY. 


the fond fancy was realized, for she reached India Ie 
safety. 

To Mrs. Lethvyn and Margaret, Lucy’s departure was 
indeed desolation; and as Nevil tried to soothe and comfort 
by the anticipation of her happiness — oh ! what a storm ot 
contending feelings crushed his very heart. He heard her 
mother bewail that love had not sprung up between her Lucy 
and himself; that two beings, each so fitted to form the hap- 
piness of the other, fate had so divided ; and, though his very 
spirit trembled, he smiled, and with gentle monition, soothed 
the momentary irritability by a reference to that wiser, kinder 
Providence, from whom all things, even the darkest, have their 
source in love. 

From a return ship, which had met the Syren about two 
hundred miles from her destined port, the anxious friends of 
Lucy received intelligence of her safety thus far; and Nevil 
nerved his heart and frame to receive, without any visible 
emotion, the intelligence expected in her next — her arrival 
and her marriage. 

The time seemed unusually long before the Indian mail 
came in ; and when he saw by the papers that it had, and the 
postman passed the vicarage, evidently on his way to the 
widow’s cottage, Nevil felt as if all physical power had de* 
parted from him. How long he thus sat he knew not; — the 
papers on which he had been writing notes for his next sermon 
were before him, and his mother fancied he 'was still busied 
with them. A hurried step aroused him, and Margaret 
Lethvyn rushed into the parlour, every feature betraying 
agitation. 

Oh ! Mr. Herbert, come — pray come with me to poor 
mamma. Lucy — our own, dear, injured Lucy! That wretch 
— that villain, Mordaunt I Oh I that I were but a man, that 
I could but seek revenge !’' 

“Margaret!” exclaimed Nevil, springing from his seat, 
and convulsively grasping her arm, his face livid as death, 
while that of the young, high-spirited Margaret glowed like, 
crimson; “revenge! for what? on whom? — What of — of — 
speak, for God’s sake !” 

“ He has deceived, has dealt falsely and foully with her — ■ 
our own Lucy ; who left friends, home — all, all for him ; and 
loved him with such love! Oh! Mr. Herbert, do not chide 
me for the sinful feelings, but I must hate him — must pray foi 


LUCY. 


257 


vengeance on him. He has deceived her. Even when he 
sent for her, he was married — married to another !” 

Nevil Herbert sunk back on his seat with a groan so deep^ 
a shudder so convulsive, that his mother and Margaret flew to 
his side in terror. It was long ere he could rouse himself; 
his forebodings all were realized ; the blow had fallen ; and 
for Lucy — who may tell the agony of Nevil’s heart, when lie 
thought of its effect on her? 

It was hut too true. Incapable of any strong or enduring 
emotion, still seeking and loving worldly aggrandizement above 
all other consideration, Mordaunt Lyndsey had not been a 
year in India before he felt his engagement with Lucy as a 
heavy chain, which he longed to cast aside. He found him- 
self courted and followed ; and could he but have stifled the 
voice of conscience, would have married before the termina- 
tion of eighteen months. A nature heartless as his own could 
neither appreciate nor understand the depth of Lucy’s He 
purposely became colder and colder in his letters, but the 
warmth and trust of her own heart prevented her perceiving 
it. He magnified the miseries, the dangers of an Indian life, 
particularly to a female so thoroughly English as Lucy ; but 
all was in vain ; — every post brought him letters full of love 
and confidence, as at first. His feeble aflections had been 
transferred to a wealthy heiress, caught by the diamonds 
which had sparkled in her ball costume. Dazzled into forget- 
fulness of all the past, conscience became drowned in the mad 
excitement and hilarity with which he pursued his advantage, 
and not till he was irretrievably engaged, did he remember 
he was the betrothed of another. 

In one part of her statement Margaret was wrong. Mor- 
daunt was not actually married when he last wrote to Lucy. 
In vain even his heartless nature struggled to write those 
words which could separate her from him for ever. For the 
first time the full extent of her love seemed to rush upon him, 
and he started up, and cursed his evil stars for making him 
such a wretch. For a moment, the idea of dissolving his 
present engagement entered his mind ; but ere he reached the 
door, a vision of gold and gems, of untold wealth, came upon 
him, and the demon triumphed. His better angel fied ; and 
he wrote to Lucy, as we have seen, believing, with pertinacious 
self-delusion, that his moaning would be so evident that she 
would break off the engagement herself — she must read that 
he was changed. At least she would write again ere she de- 


258 


LUCY. 


cided on leaving England, and then it would be easy for him 
to prevent it ; and confiding in this, not a month after his 
letter had been despatched, the heiress became Mordaunt 
Lyndsey’s wife. 

Our tale is well-nigh done, for to breathe one word of 
Lucy’s feelings would be profanation. In vain her aunt and 
uncle conjured her to remain with them in India, and prove 
how little Mordaunt’s baseness had affected her, by a speedy 
marriage with another, above him alike in birth, wealth, and 
station ; for such unions in India were easily accomplished. 
By some, perhaps, the proposal would have been seized with 
avidity, and a broken heart effectually concealed beneath an 
outward show of prosperity and pride. With Lucy this could 
not be. The storm had burst, the halo was dissipated ; its 
beauty and its sunshine, its purity and truth, vanished like 
falling stars in the dark abyss of fathomless space ; and the 
gentle spirit, folded in the glowing halo, lay shrined ’neath 
the shock. Her yearnings were now for home, for a mother’s 
tenderness, a sister’s caressing love, a brother’s supporting 
friendship, which would lead her failing heart up to the only 
fount of peace. And, after a long and weary interval — a 
voyage, whose many dangers, delays, and all but shipwreck, 
were, it seemed, as unfelt as unnoticed — those yearnings were 
at length fulfilled. 

Again was Lucy Lethvyn an inmate of her mother’s lowly 
roof ; but, oh ! how unspeakably changed, yet still so ex- 
quisitely, so radiantly lovely, that the eye turned again and 
again upon her, first in delight, and then with such a strange 
quivering of the lip and eyelid, betraying that tears were 
nigh. The smile — oh ! what a history gleamed from it, of 
a woman’s heart broken, yet even from its every shivered 
fragment reflecting the quickness and confidence — aye, and 
deep heavenly love, which had descended on it from above. 
Not a bitter word, not an unkind reflection, not a selfish 
murmur ever escaped those lips. Those who loved and 
tended her alone occupied her thoughts and deeds. There 
were times, indeed, when a paroxysm of mental agony came 
upon her, bowing her fragile frame even to the dust ; but of 
these intervals no earthly eye was witness. They were only 
marked by a rapid increase of exhaustion, and all the fatal 
evidences of decline and death ; and so months passed. 
And Nevil, may we write of him, as day by day he watch- 
sd over the fading form of one so long, so secretly, so 


LUCY. 


259 


ancliangeably beloved ? Alas ! for him, even as for Lucy^ 
silence is the most eloquent. We do not give such feelings 
words. 

Autumn had come with a mildness and beauty unusual and 
most soothing. Lucy’s couch had been drawn to the window 
at her own request, and her eye wandered over the landscape 
with a pleased and quiet smile. Nevil Herbert was alone 
beside her; he had been reading from that blessed book 
which had given comfort and strength to both, but had 
paused, seeing her inclined to speak. 

“ Yes !” she exclaimed, the fervour of her spirit flushing 
her cheek with sudden crimson, “ yes! His words and works 
alike proclaim him Love ! Oh, Nevil I God has heard my 
prayer. He has spared me till I could realize the beauty 
and goodness, and the glory of this world. There was a 
time when, outward and inward — all was dark. Not a ray 
illumined the sluggish depths of misery and despair. Beauty 
had vanished with truth. I prayed for death ; and once, as 
I stood alone upon the deck, the dread temptation was upon 
me to end misery and life together. It was but one plunge, 
one little moment’s resolution, and all would be over. All ! 
Oh, what a flash of bewildering and awful light burst upon 
my mental darkness, sent as an angel of mercy to my soul I 
I had loved a mortal, and not God I The world was beautiful 
with human love — not with His, from whom it sprang ; — and 
the light of human love was quenched, to teach me other 
things ; and then it was I prayed, in the deep agony of 
remorse, my God would spare me, even in suffering, till even 
this world were lovely to my heart once more ; till I could 
feel His love more deep, more precious, than the love of man. 
And he has done this. Nevil, dearest Nevil. A few, a very 
few hours, and I shall be with Him whose all is joy, and love- 
liness, and love, for ever and ever.” 

There was no answer, and Lucy turned with difficulty to- 
wards him. His face was buried in his hands and his whole 
frame shaken as with convulsion. 

‘•Nevil,” she said, softly, “dearest Nevil, you are in sor- 
row, and-I can do nothing to relieve it ; I — to whom you have 
been such a true consoling friend. I have long feared you 
had some secret grief ; not in the selfishness of my joy, but 
since — since I have returned. Oh, that I could be to you 
what you have been to me !” 

It was too much for Nevil. In the passionate emotion of 
12 


260 


LUCY. 


that moment, he flung nimself on his knees beside the couch, 
poured forth the torrent of that overwhelming love — how it 
had lingered with him through years of hopelessness and mis- 
ery ; and he besought her, in agony, to say that she would 
live — live to bless him yet ; and, as he spoke, the pious, the 
strong-hearted Nevil Herbert wept, till, as an infant, his very 
soul seemed powerless within him. 

“ And you have loved me thus ! — you, the good, the noble, 
the exalted ! Oh ! I thought human love was all an idle 
dream — a vain delusion ; but it is not — it is not. Even this 
may be beautiful and true,” murmured Lucy, raising herseli 
with difficulty till her head rested on the bosom of Nevil. 
“ Do not — do not weep. Nevil ! Our Father will bring peace 
and love. And oh ! if the pure and ransomed spirits may 
hover beside those still lingering on this earth, be it mine the 
blessed task of bringing you the comfort I would give you 
now. I was never worthy of such love — and from you, dearest 
Nevil! — how much less worthy now, that even, were life grant- 
ed, I could give but a broken heart, whose all of life and 
energy had been devoted to another. You must not weep for 
me, Nevil I You must not let my memory blight your path 
of holiness and good. Think of all you have been to me, 
have done for me ; and — and if that will comfort you, oh I 
believe all — all of love this aching heart may yet give to 
earth, Nevil, dearest Nevil I is your own I” 

She raised that sweet face, which had become suddenly 
pale and dim, as if a shadow had stolen over it. Nevil clasp- 
ed her convulsively to his heart, and struggled vainly to speak; 
his white and quivering lips pressed hers with a long, lingering 
kiss, and she shrunk not from them. It was his first and last ; 
for sleep stole upon her, and bowed her head more heavily, 
more caressingly upon his bosom. And Nevil stilled his 
heart’s full beating, and hushed his very breath, lest that 
calm slumber should be broken. He yearned to look once 
more in those lovely eyes, to drink in once, but once again, 
the gushing music of that thrilling voice ; but vain those 
mortal yearnings. Human love, the purest, mightiest, has no 
power to chain the heaven-born spirit from its soaring flight. 
She never woke again I 

And Mordaunt Lyndsey — was there no vengeance, no 
retribution for him? Did justice indeed so slumber ? Long 
years rolled on ere aught could be distinguished to mark his 


LUCY. 


261 


prosperous path from that of his fellows ; hut some twenty 
years after our “ Autumn Walks ” in the lovely vales of West* 
moreland, we learned that the hand of Heaven had dashed his 
lot with poison. A blooming family had sprung up around 
him ; but each more or less touched by the malady of their 
mother, lie had wedded madness I 


€\i IpirifH fnlrcntij. 

FOUNDED ON A HEBREW APOLOGUE. 

There was a pause in the courts of heaven. Seven tiinea 
had the voice of the Eternal resounded through the vast 
realms of space, and from the very centre of chaotic darkness 
a world of beauty had sprung forth. Thousands of angelic 
spirits floated round and round the new-born globe, tending 
the innumerable sources of loveliness and life, which had burst 
at once into perfected being at the all-creating word. With 
every new creation, an increased effulgence flashed over the 
angelic hosts ; and richer tones of mighty harmony proclaim- 
ed the power, and the glory, and the mercy of their God. 

Deep in the unfathomable ab3^ss of formless space hung 
the new-formed world, suspended from its parent heaven by 
chains of diamond light, visible only to the pure spirits, who 
on them ascended and descended, in performance of their 
newly-assigned employments. 

Myriads of celestial beings stood in dazzling flies without 
the veil, which in unapproachable and indescribable splendour 
concealed the throne of the Creator ; whence issued that 
Eternal voice which spake, and creation was ! None, not 
even the highest and the purest, the most etherealized amidst 
those spiritual ranks, could gaze on the ineffable glory pierc- 
ing through the effulgent veil ; nor dared approach it. without 
covering his face with his glittering pinions, and falling low 
in prostrate adoration. In their several ranks they stood, the 
glorious archangels to whom the ways, clearly as the works of 
the Eternal, were revealed. Hierarchs, who had penetrated 
deeper and deeper the mysteries of infinity, and by long-tried 
obedience, and faithfulness, and love, had won the glorious 
privilege of commune with the Ineffable Majesty of the 
Supreme. Even to the young seraph, commencing his heav- 
enly career, satisfied to labour and to love, till he should pass 
through the intermediate ranks, and rising higher and higher 
in angelic intellect, and the beatified nature of his tasks, ai 
length attain the arch-angelic goal. 


THE spirit’s entreaty. 


263 


Seven times had gone forth the Omnific Word, and seven 
times had the Eternal pronounced it good ; and each time of 
that approving Word, had the resplendent pinions of the 
hosts of heaven fluttered in irrepressible rejoicing, till space 
itself seemed lost in one vast flood of glistening and iris- 
coloured light, and music, soft, spiritual, and thrilling, marked 
every movement of the radiant wings, and fllled up each pauss 
of song. 

And then, midst the deep stillness which succeeded, again 
spake the Eternal voice : ‘‘ Let us make man ! ” and the 
mandate with the velocity of light rushed through the ange- 
lic-peopled courts ; and every spirit of every rank, and every 
host, caught up the Omnific W ord, and, in the full song of 
adoration, testified their joy. But suddenly a hush sunk on 
the rejoicing myriads ; for, darting at the same instant from 
their respective ranks nearest the Eternal’s throne, three 
glorious spirits met together before the resplendent veil, and 
prostrated themselves in supplication. 

They were of the highest order of the archangels, each 
intrusted with an attribute of his Creator to uphold its glory 
and its beauty amidst the celestial and spiritual worlds. And 
one spake, and his wings of sapphire, his dazzling brow, his 
radiant eye, before whose single look the mists of error 
passed ;,his crystal spear, before whose slightest touch, false- 
hood fled trembling and self-abhorred ; alike proclaimed the 
gift of which he was the guardian. The spirit of Truth 
implored — 

“ Father, create him not — life will be overshadowed by 
deceit’! ’’and the spirit bowed his eftulgent brow upon his 
wings in grief 

And then the second spirit spake, — akin to Truth but 
sterner. His glorious brow was shaded by a glittering helm, 
and his right hand grasped an unsheathed sword ; a raiment, 
resembling an hauberk of golden light, clothed his graceful 
limbs, and the rich full voice, in its entreaty, breathed his 
name 

“ Father and Lord, create him not I He will destroy yon 
beautiful world by his unrighteousness ; and I, unto whom 
thou hast intrusted thine attribute of Justice, will seem to 
him, in his darkened light, as the avenger. Father, create- 
him not I ” 

And then spake the third archangel, — his pure white 
pinions fluttered tremulously around him, and the exquisite 


264 


THE SPIRIT'S ENTREATY. 


beauty of bis youthful face seemed disturbed by the intense 
ardour of his supplication ; a wreath of amaranths bound 
back his flowing hair from a brow of such transcendent 
loveliness, that one look upon it fllled the soul with 
balm ; he held a bough of emerald resembling the olive leaf, 
but radiant with a liquid lustre unknown to the plants of 
earth. 

Create him not, oh, Father ! ” implored the spirit, and 
the brightness of his meekly expressive orbs was dimmed ; 
^•create him not! he will chase me from the earth. Peace 
will be but a name amidst the awful scenes of internal and 
external war, with which man’s passions will devastate yon 
beautiful world. Father, create him not I ” 

The spirit ceased ; and, hushed to a solemn stillness, the 
listening myriads waited the answering Word. The efful- 
gence piercing through the veil appeared slightly shadowed, as 
if the Almighty presence had withdrawn his immediate glory, 
and the entreaty of his favoured angels would be granted. 
But far, far, in the unfathomable distance, a resplendent stat 
seemed floating towards the veil, and faint yet thrilling melo- 
dy proclaimed the rapid advance of angel wings. On, on — 
and the semblance of a star gave place to the form of a 
beatifled spirit, whose dazzling loveliness irradiated space 
itself, and heightened the glory all around ; and every rank he 
passed hailed him, even in that awful hour, with an irrepressi- 
ble burst of song, and drew closer and closer round ; and 
watched him with such love as only angels feel ; and he smiled 
on them, but paused not in his rapid course, and the smile 
kindled hope anew, and confidence and joy banished the 
momentary shade. 

It was the Spirit of Love ; the best beloved of the Eter- 
nal ; the guardian essence of the whole angelic hosts ; angels 
and archangels, hierarchs and seraphs, alike acknowledged 
him, and bowed before his sway, as the representative of the 
Supreme. And on he floated in his indescribable beauty, 
and every court of heaven sent forth increased effulgence as 
he passed. He neared the veil, and bowed down before it, 
and then he spake, and his low soft tone penetrated the farth- 
est limit of that immeasurable space. 

“ Create him, oh. Father I ” he prayed ; “ create him to 
love, and be beloved I What if he err? what if he sin? 
Thou wilt pardon him ; for thy love is greater than his sin I ” 

A burst of bewildering glory flashed through the veil 


THE spirit’s entreaty. 


265 


upon him, as he knelt, and darted its dazzling rays through 
the thousand ranks of heaven at the same moment. It was 
the assenting sign of the Eternal ; and again the Omnific 
W ord went fortli : “ Let us make man ! ” and millions and 
millions of voices swelled the glad chorus, that another and 
yet mightier creation should bear witness to the loving mercy 
of their God. And Truth and Justice, and Peace joined 
in the thrilling strain, for the Spirit of Love had touched 
them' with his quivering breath, and they felt his words were 
true. Man might still err, but created in love, the immortal 
spirit breathed into the shell of clay ; the angelic hosts gave 
vent to the full song of rejoicing; for the Spirit of Love 
hovered over the new-born world, as over theirs, endowed by 
the measureless compassion of the Eternal to purify and 
pardon. 


THE STORY OF A PICTURR 


No place IS more calculated to call forth all the vagaries of 
the imagination than an old half-ruined castle, surrounded 
by wood and mount, hoar from many centuries, and lying in 
such deep seclusion, as to be unseen by the more casual trav- 
eller. On such a spot, completely circled by a branch of the 
Ccvennes, in the ancient district of Auvergne, it was once my 
hap to light. Trees of such gigantic growth, that they appear- 
ed bending beneath the weight of ages, frowning rocks, and 
overgrown brushwood formed so close a fortification, that the 
building might have been passed and repassed within a mile of 
its vicinity undiscovered. 

It was a gothic chateau of the olden time, just sufficiently 
ruinous to give it the interest of age, yet containing costly 
tapestried chambers, pannelled halls, long rambling galleries, 
secret rooms, and those deep dark dungeons, where many a 
brave man has languished and died unknown, save by his ruth- 
less captor, all still in sufficient preservation to fill the mind 
with visions of the past as with the breathing realities of the 
present. There was a small chapel in the building, which had 
once been evidently richly adorned, but whose shrines and 
hangings were now all crumbling to decay. It was a melan- 
choly visionary place, yet infused with a charm impossible to 
be resisted, and day after day my wanderings turned to the 
chateau ; contented at first with rambling over chamber, hall, 
and gallery, imagination feasting on the thoughts of what had 
been the life, the stir, the pageantry, where all was now the 
solitude of silence and neglect. There were still some pictures 
hanging from the walls, but seemingly so resigned to the cob- 
web and the dust that I had heeded them little, till one day 
the sun gleaming upon an antique frame, unobserved before., 
attracted me to the picture it enshrined, and in a moment 
heart, mind, and fancy were irresistibly enchained. 

To attempt description of that face, to say why it haunted 
ne for days and nights, as something almost unearthly, would 


IDALIE. 


267 


a hopeless task ; yet, turn from it as I would, or seek 
amusement in other objects, still it rose before me, pale, shad- 
owy? y^t so lovely, baffling every effort to dismiss it from my 
mind. Stars and braids of diamonds seemed still literally to 
glisten in the long jetty tresses, falling as a veil around her. 
Hands small, thin, and delicately white were crossed upon her 
bosom ; the large dark eyes were raised, and the pale lips 
parted as in prayer; she seemed standing near an ancient 
altar; lut every other object in the picture time had ren* 
dered wholly indistinct. 

That I could obtain any information from the half blind, 
wholly deaf guardian of the chateau was little probable ; but 
the old man, to my astonishment, volunteered the tradition of 
the portrait, even before I had sufficiently rallied from its 
effect to look into its past. This tale, when separated from 
the garrulous annotations of his age and office, was simple 
and brief enough, yet to resist its spell was impossible. The 
beings of whom I heard seemed to breathe and move around 
me, the old castle to resume the state and order which had 
characterised it nearly three centuries ago, the very woods to 
lose their wild appearance, and blending in beautiful keeping 
with mount and rock, and richly cultured lands, seemed to 
teem with the innumerable retainers of the proud nobles to 
whom they had once belonged. Under the influence of such 
dreamy visions the following papers were hastily written. 
Pretensions to a connected romance they have none ; they tell 
but the story of a picture, which I would fain bring before 
the mind’s eye of the reader, even as its remembrance still so 
vividly lingers on my own. 


I. 

It was the third day of the brilliant show, yet was there nc 
relaxation of chivalric ardour, nor semblance that lords and 
gentles were wearied with martial sports, or that the galaxy 
of beauty which the ornamented galleries presented had in 
iu.ght diminished of loveliness and grace. Never had the 
fair sun of Paris looked down on a scene of more spirit- 
stirring interest, never had the blue arch of heaven re-echoed 
more martial sounds than on the day which witnessed the 
last tournament of France. The lists extending through the 
most central parts of Paris, flanked on one side by the terrific 


268 


IDALIE. 


towers of the Bastile, were adorned by pavilions and tents of 
every variety of colouring and material. Heavy brocades, 
velvets, and silks, adorned with the devices of their owners 
betrayed the names and bearings of well-nigh all the nobility 
of France, Over one, whose silver covering glittered so 
resplendently in the July sun that the aching eye turned 
from its lustre, hung the heavy folds of France’s banner, the 
Hour tie lis^ which, combined with the splendid accoutrements 
of esquires and pages lingering around, proved that majesty 
itself was amongst the combatants. The light breeze sporting 
with the many standards, at times gave their devices to view, 
at others, laid them idly by their staves. Streamers and 
pennons in gay relief stood forth against the clear blue sky ; 
while the brilliant armour, the glittering spears, and stainless 
blades so multiplied the dazzling rays, there seemed a 
hundred suns. 

France and Scotland, Spain and Savoy, in the honour of 
which last these jousts were given, were all marshalled in the 
lists, for none chose to remain mere spectators of games in 
which their chivalric spirits so heartily sympathised. The 
princes of the lordly house of Guise vying, in richness of 
apparel and number of retinue, with royalty itself. Mont- 
morenci, Coligny, Andelot, Conde, Nemours — names bearing 
with them such undying memories, their mention is sufficient 
— all were this day present; for the blood-red standard of 
intolerance and persecution as yet remained unfurled. The 
very sounds that stirred the air added to the excitement of 
the scene. There were the proud neighings, the hurried 
snort of eager chargers impatient for the onset ; the pealing 
shouts of welcome as each knight was recognised, marching at 
the head of well-trained bands to his pavilion ; the answering 
cheers of the men-at-arms ; the trampling of many steeds ; the 
frequent clash of steel, as t?ie knights passed and repassed in 
the lists ere they formed into bands; now and then the loud 
voice of the herald, or the shrill prolonged blast of the 
trumpet, and ever and anon a thrilling burst of martial 
music, lingering awhile in its own rude tones, then subsiding 
gently into the softer song of minstrelsy and love, more 
fitted to the ears of beauty than the wilder notes of war. 

And beauty was indeed assembled in the many galleries 
erected round the lists. Even had there been no Catherine 
dc Medicis, whose character was not yet fully known, and 
who now, as the queen consort, claimed and received uni- 


IDALIE. 


269 


versal homage ; no fair and gentle Elizabeth, the youthful 
bride of Spain, whose child-like form and diminutive though 
most expressive features accorded little with the heavy 
gorgeousness of her jewelled robes ; no retiring yet much- 
loved Margaret, the sister of Henri and bride of Savoy; 
no Anne of Este, whose regal beauty and majestic mien 
would have done honour to a diadem — had there been none 
of these, there was yet one in the royal group who, though 
girlhood had barely reached its prime, fascinated the gaze 
of every eye and fixed the homage of every heart. The 
diamond coronet of fieur cle /is entwining the sterner thistle, 
that lightly wreathed her noble brow, betrayed her rank 
and the simple mention of Mary Scotland, the queen 
dauphine, is all-suflScient to bring before the reader a fair, 
bright vision of loveliness and grace, that imagination only 
can portray. She sate the centre of a fair bevy of young 
girls, indiscriminately of France and Scotland, all bearing 
on the smooth brow, the smiling lip, the unpaled cheek true 
tokens of those fresh unsullied feelings found only in early 
youth. 

The trumpets breathed forth- a prolonged flourish, echoed 
on every side by the silver clarion and rolling drum, and 
Henri himself entered the lists. Clothed in the richest 
armour, mounted on a beautiful Arabian, and still wearing 
across his breast the black and white scarf in homage to 
Diana, the chivalric monarch challenged one by one the 
bravest warriors and the first nobles of his kingdom. Excited 
by the presence of his distinguished guests, he appeared 
this day urged on by an ardour and impetuosity if^hich, while 
it endeared him to his subjects, caused many a female heart 
to tremble. 

“Has thy knight turned truant, Idalie, or is ho so wearied 
from the exertions of the last two days he has no strength or 
will for more?” asked the queen dauphine of one beside her, 
whose large dark eye and soul-speaking beauty betrayed a 
birth more southern than Scotia’s colder shores. 

“ He enters not the lists, royal madam,” she answered, in 
a lowered voice, “for he fears the challenge of the king — 
fears not defeat, but conquest. The king has skill as yet 
unrivalled, courage none dare question ; but the practice of a 
soldier brings these things to greater perfection than 
monarchs ever may obtain. Our gracious sovereign chal- 
lenges the bravest knights to-day, and therefore does the 
Odunt avoid the lists.” 


270 


IDALIE. 


“ Perhaps he does well. But see how gallantly thy fathei 
bears himself; disease hath worked him but little, or rusted 
his sword within its scabbard. I would trust myself to the 
men of Montemar, Idalie, with better faith than to many of 
those more courtly-seeming bands. And who is yon galiant, 
bearing thy colours % Is the young esquire of thy father a 
rival to the goodly count? ’ 

“ Not so, gracious lady. Louis de Montemar and T are 
cousins in kindred, friends in affection, and playfellows from 
infancy. I broidered him the scarf he wears as token of m;y 
love, when he doffed the page’s garb and donned the squire’s. 
When he hath won his spur, perchance my scarf will be of 
little value.” 

“ Thinkest thou so ? Methought the lowly homage that 
he tendered spoke humbler greeting than that of a brother. 
But there is some stir below ; the trumpets sound the king 
again as challenger.” 

A long flourish of trumpets again riveted the attention of 
the spectators, and the heralds in set phrase, challenged, on 
the part of their liege lord and gracious sovereign Henri of 
France, Gabriel de Lorges, Comte de Montgomeri, to run 
three courses with the lance or spear, and do battle with the 
same. Thrice was the count challenged according to form, 
but there was no answer. 

A deadly pallor spread over the flushed cheek of Idalie 
de Montemar, and, clinging to the dauphine’s seat, she 
exclaimed, “ Lady, dearest lady, oh, do not let this be ! in 
mercy speak to her grace the queen, implore her to avert this 
combat !” 

“Thou silly trembler, what evil can accrue? Nay, an 
thou lookest thus, I must do thy bidding,” and Mary hastily 
approached th^ seat of Catherine de Medicis, whom, how- 
ever, she found already agitated and alarmed, and in the very 
act of despatching an esquire to implore the king to leave the 
lists. Somewhat infected with the terror she witnessed, yet 
unable to define it, the dauphine returned to her seat, seeking 
to reassure the trembling Idalie, and watch with her the 
effect of the queen’s solicitation. 

At the moment of the esquire’s joining the krightly ring, 
the Comte de Montgomeri, unarmed and bareheaded, had 
flung himself at the king’s feet, imploring him in earnest 
accents to withdraw his challenge, and not expose him to the 
misery and danger of meeting his sovereign even in a friendly 


IDALIE. 


27 1 

joust. It was no common fear, no casual emotion impressed 
on the striking countenance of Montgomeri ; he was not 
one to bend his knee in entreaty, even to his sovereign, 
for a mere trivial cause. The princes and nobles round 
were themselves struck by his earnestness, knowing too 
well his great valour and extraordinary skill in every 
martial deed to doubt them now. The king alone remained 
unmoved. 

“Tush, man!” he said, joyously; “what more harm will 
your good lance do our sacred person, than those whose blows 
yet tingle on our flesh ? we have run many a gallant course 
to-day, and how shall we be the worse for a tilt with thee % 
Marry, thou art over bold, sir knight, we will not do thy 
courage such dishonour as to tax it now; yet, by our Lady, 
such presumption needs a check. Come, rouse thee from this 
folly, and don thine armour, as thou wouldst were our foes in 
Paris ; my chaplet is not perfect till it hath a leaf from 
thee.” 

“ It may not be, my liege. I do beseech your grace to 
pardon me. and seek some opponent more worthy of this 
honour.” 

“ I know of none,” replied the king, so frankly and feel- 
ingly, that the warrior’s head bent even to the ground ; “ and 
Montgomeri will obey his sovereign, if he will not oblige his 
friend. Sir Count, we command your acceptance of our 
challenge.” 

Sadly and slowly the count rose from his knee, and was 
reluctantly withdrawing, when the king again spoke — 

“We would not, good my lord, that you should prepare to 
accept our challenge even as a criminal for execution ; there- 
fore, mark ye, lords and gentles, and bear witness to our 
words — whatever ill or scathe may chance to us in our 
intended course, we hold and pronounce Gabriel de Lorges, 
Comte de Montgomeri, guiltless of all malice, absolving him 
from all intentional evil, even if he work us harm. How 
now, sir squire, what would our royal consort, that ye seek us 
thus rudely?” 

The esquire bent his knee, and delivered his message. 

The king laughed long and lightly. 

“ By our lady, this is good,” he said. “ Heard ye ever 
the like of this, my lords? What spell doth our brave 
Montgojueri bear about him, that we may not meet him even 
as others in friendly combat ? Back to your royal mistress 


272 


IDALIE. 


Conrad ; commend us in all love and duty to her ^race, and 
Bay we will break this lance unto her honour. Would she 
have our noble guests proclaim Montgomeri so brave 
and skilful that Henri dared not meet him even after 
his challenge had gone forth? Shai^, shame on such 
advisers 

The esquire withdrew, and the king taking a new lance, 
and mounting a fresh charger, slowly proceeded round the 
lists, attended by pages and esquires, and managing his fiery 
steed so gracefully as to rivet on him many admiring glances. 
He paused beneath the queen’s gallery, doffing his deep-plumed 
helmet a moment in the respectful greeting of a faithful chev- 
alier ; then looking up, he smiled proudly and undauntedly. 
At that moment the trumpets proclaimed the entrance of the 
challenged, and the king hastily replacing his helmet, clasped 
it but slightly, and galloped to his post. 

A loud shout of welcome greeted the appearance of Mont- 
gomeri. and as the spectators marked the pink and white scarf 
across his shoulder, and the opal clasp that secured the deep 
plumes of his helmet, all eyes involuntarily turned to see the 
fair being to whom those colours proclaimed him vowed ; nor 
when they traced the bandeau of opals on the pale high brow 
of Idalie de Monteraar, her flowing robes secured by a girdle 
of the same precious stones, and discovered it was to her ser- 
vice the knight was pledged, did they marvel that at length 
the cold, stern, unbending Gabriel de Lorges had bowed be- 
neath the spell of love. 

The lists were cleared, and deep silence reigned amidst 
the assembled thousands. The combatants, ere the signal 
sounded, slowly traversed the lists, meeting at both extremities, 
and greeting each other in all solemn and chivalric fashion. 
Montgomeri’s lance sank as he saluted the queen’s pavilion, but 
it was to Idalie his lowest homage was tendered. She sought 
to smile in answer ; but her lip only quivered, for her eje, 
awakened by love, could trace his deep reluctance to accept tho 
challenge. 

The signal was given, and with a shock and sound as of 
thunder the knights met in the centre of the course. The 
lances of both shivered. A loud and ringing shout echoed far 
and wide, forming a deep bass to the military music bursting 
lorth at the same moment ; but then the sound changed, and 
BO suddenly, that the shout of triumph seemed turned, by the 
Very breeze which bore it along, to the cries of wailing and 


IDALIE. 


273 


despair. The horses of both combatants were seen careering 
wildly, and with empty saddles, round the lists. Princes^ 
nobles, and knights crowded so swiftly and in such numbers to 
the spot where the combatants had met, that the eager popu- 
lace could trace nothing but that one warrior was down and 
seemingly senseless, the which no one could assert. Order and 
restraint gave place to the wildest tumult ; the people, en 
masse, rushed indiscriminately into the lists, heedless of the 
efforts of the men-at-arms to keep them back, and scarcely re- 
strained even by the rapid and agitated approach of the cjueen 
consort and the princesses towards the principal group. W ords 
of terrific import were whispered one to another, till the whis- 
per grew loud and rumour became certainty. The music 
ceased, save the solitary flourish of trumpets proclaiming the 
warlike sports concluded. As if by magic the lists were 
cleared, the tents struck, and every trace of the tournament 
removed. But even then the popular ferment continued ; there 
were men hurrying to and fro, little knots of persons assem 
bling in the streets, speaking in anxious whispers, or hastening 
in silence to their homes. Ever and anoii the muffled tone of 
heavy bells came borne on the air, and then the dead silence, 
ever the shapeless herald of some dread calamity. Ere night 
all traces of the morning’s glittering splendour and animated 
life had disappeared, and Paris seemed changed into a very 
desert of solitude and gloom. 


IT. 

Eleven days had passed since the sudden termination of 
the fatal tournament, and Henri of France still lay speechless 
and insensible as he had fallen in the lists, when, from the in- 
secure fastening of his helmet, it had given way before the 
lance of Montgoraeri, and caused him to receive the full force 
of the blow on his eyebrow, thence fatally injuring the brain. 
Still life was not extinct, and, though against all reason, hopes 
were still entertained by many for his eventual recovery. In 
one of the apartments of the Louvre, forming the suite of the 
^ueen dauphine, sat the unfortunate Comte de Montgomeri 
and his betrothed bride. ^ Sometimes sanguine that Henri 
would, nay, must recover ; at others plunged in the depth of 
despair — had been the alternate moods of the count during 
these eleven days. His friends conjured him to lose no time 
in retiring from France, at least for a time j and Idalio her 


274 


IDALIE. 


self, thougli she shrunk from the idea of parting, with an iinlo* 
finable feeling of foreboding dread, yet so trembled for his 
safety if he remained, as to add her solicitations to those of 
others. Still the count lingered. The very thought of his 
having been the ill-fated hand to give the death-blow to the 
monarch he revered, and the friend he loved, was too horrible 
to be realized. He could not believe that such would be ; yet 
so dark was his despair, so agonizing his self accusations, that 
even his interviews with Idalie had lost their soothing sweet- 
ness, and he did but deplore that her pure love had been given 
to one so darkly fated as himself. 

It was after one of these bursts of misery that the Comte 
de Montemar, who had been engaged with papers at the fur- 
ther end of the apartment, approached and sought to comfort 
him by an appeal to those holier feelings, which Montgomeri 
possessed in a much higher degree than most of his country- 
men. 

“ It is not well, my friend,” De Montemar said, “ to poison 
thus the brief moments we may yet pass together. Remem- 
ber, thou wert no willing agent of that higher power, by whose 
mandate alone it was that our monarch fell. All may seem 
dark, yet even out of darkness He brought forth light — out 
of a very chaos the most unwavering order ; and does he not 
do so still 1 Abide by the advice of those who urge thee to 
quit France till order is restored, and our gracious sovereign’s 
last words remembered and acted upon. Italian blood is hot 
and eager to avenge ; but fear not, we shall meet again in hap- 
pier days, and oh, embitter not thus the few moments still left 
my poor child 1” 

Softened and subdued more than he had been yet, Mont- 
gomeri folded his arm round the weeping Idalie, kissed the 
tears from her pale cheek, conjured her forgiveness, and prom 
ised to battle with the despondency that almost crushed him. 

“ And thou wilt indeed do this ?” she rejoined, imploringly. 

Oh, bless thee for such promise ! Yet I fear thee, Montgom- 
eri. And when apart from me, these troubled thoughts regain 
ascendency, thou wilt rush on danger, on death, to escape them. 
Think, then, dearest, that it is not- your own life alone which 
you risk ; that one is bound up in it which cannot rest alone. 
W ill the ivy blossom and smile when the oak has fallen ? 
And as the oak is to the lowly yet clinging ivy, so art thou to 
me.” 

Folding her still closer, Montgomeri in his turn sought tc 


IDALIE. 


275 


reassure and soothe, but with less success than usual. Every 
look and tone of Idalie betrayed that heavy weight which had 
increased with each day that brought the hour of parting nearer. 
Breathed to none, and battled with as it had been, still it 
seemed to hold every faculty chained, and at length caused her 
head to sink on the bosom of De Lorges with such a burst of 
irrepressible anguish as to excite his alarm, and tenderly he 
conjured her to reveal its cause. 

“ I know it is a weakness, a folly, Gabriel, unworthy of the 
woman whom thpu lovest ; but scorn it not, upbraid it not, 
bid it go from me ! Is there not woe enough in parting, that 
before the hope of meeting ever rises a dim and shapeless 
darkness impossible to be defined, yet so folding round my fu- 
ture as to bury all of hope, of trust, of every feeling, save that 
we shall not meet as we have parted 

“ Is it change in me thbu fearest, love? No. Then heed 
it not ; ’tis but a baseless fancy, which will come when the 
frame is weakened by the anguish of the mind. Believe me — ” 

He was interrupted. The hangings over the door leading 
by a private passage to the dauphine’s own rooms were sud- 
denly drawn aside, and, closely muffled, Mary of Scotland 
stood before them, with anxiety and haste visibly imprinted on 
her features. 

“ This is no time for ceremony, my lord, or we would 
apologize for our intrusion,” she said, turning towards the 
Count de Montemar ; our business is too weighty for an in- 
different messenger. Count de Lorges,” she added, addressing 
him abruptly, and pausing not for Montemar’s courtly words, 
“ tarry not another night in Paris ; you have been unwise to 
loiter here so long. Pause for no thought, no marvel. Fly 
at once ; put the broad seas between you and France, and there 
may be happiness in store for you yet. Dearest Idalie, for thy 
Bake, even as for Montgomeri’s, I am here ; do not look upon 
me thus.” 

'‘'•Now must we part — now? Your highness means not 
now I” exclaimed Idalie, as her cold hands convulsively closed 
round the count’s arm. “ What has he done that he should 

fly 

“ Nothing to call the blush of shame to his cheek or thine, 
dear child. The words I have heard may mean nothing, may 
be but wrung from woman’s agony, for the grief of Catherine 
de Medicis is of no softening nature ; yet ought JVIontgomeri 
io leave Paris without delay, for there may be some to act on 


276 


IDALIE. 


broken words, oven as on an imperial mandate. Detain him 
not, Idalie ; we shall visit Scotland perchance ere long ; and 
there no grief shall damp a bridal.” 

Stay but one moment more, royal lady,” entreated De 
Lorges, as the dauphine turned to go ; “ one word, for mercy ! 
How fares the king? Is there no more hope? Does he still 
lie as he has done ever since that fatal stroke ?” 

Mary looked at him somewhat surprised, and very sorrow* 
fully. 

“ No, Montgomeri, no !’ she said, after a pause of much 
feeling ; “ the soul has escaped the shattered prison, and 
Ileiiri is at rest.” 

Montgomeri staggered back with a heavy, almost ::x)nvul' 
sive groan. He knew not till that moment how powerfully 
hope had sustained him. The shock was almost as fearful as 
if he had never thought of death ; and yet the horrible con- 
viction that he was a regicide had scarcely for one instant left 
his mind. 

“ Montemar, let not this be, for the sake of thy poor child, 
of both. Part them ere long,” whispered the queen (dauphine 
no more), as the count knelt before her in involuntary homage; 
‘‘think not of us now. Would to 'orod we were still Dauphine 
of France and not he” queen Montgomeri’s danger, I fear, 
is imminent ; let him not linger, and may our Lady guard 
him still.” 

She departed as she spoke ; and Montemar, infected with 
her evident anxiety n^sitated not to obey. 

“Rouse thee, M»jntgomeri,” he said, earnestly; “fly, for 
the sake of this poor, drooping flower ; let not our Idalie weep 
for a darker doom than even this sad parting. Come to thy 
father’s heart awhile, my child. Have I no claim upon thy 
love ?” 

Gently he drew her from Montgomeri’s still detaining 
arms, almost relieved to find her insensible to any further 
suffering. His beseeching words to fly ere Idalie again awoke 
to consciousness, moved the count to action. Still he lingered 
to kiss again and again the pale cheek and lips of his beloved • 
then convulsively wringing the count’s hand, rushed from the 
room and from the palace at the very moment that voices 
ehouted, “ Long live Francis the Second! God preserve tha 


IDALIE. 


277 


III. 

Eighteen months had passed, and still was the Count dc 
Montgomeri an exile from his country * and so virulent was 
Catherine against him, so determinately forgetful of Henri's 
last words, absolving the count of all intentional evil, what- 
ever might ensue, that even his best friends dared not wisn 
him back. For Idalie, this interval was indeed heavy with 
anxiety and sorrow, and all the bitter sickness of hope de- 
ferred. No doubt of his affection ever entered her heart; she 
knew him fond and faithful as herself ; but there seemed no end, 
no term to the long, long interval of absence. Her future was 
bounded by the hour of meeting, and a very void of interest, 
and hope and pleasure seemed the space which stretched 
between. Yet, for her father’s sake, her ever unselfish nature 
struggled with the stagnating gloom. The court was loath- 
some to them both, for even the friendship of the young queen 
could not remove from Idalie the horror which Catherine de 
Medicis inspired. In the Chateau de Montemar, then, these 
eighteen months had mostly been passed, and Idalie compelled 
herself to seek and feel interest in the families of her father’s 
vassals, and in the many lessons of feudal government and 
policy which, as the heiress of all his large estates and of his 
proud, unsullied name, her father delighted to pour into her 
ear. 

One other subject engrossed the Count de Montemar, and 
of which he spoke so often and so solemnly to his daughter, 
that his feelings on the subject became hers ; it was the wide- 
spreading over France of the new religion, deemed by all 
orthodox Catholics as a heresy, which if not checked, would 
entirely subvert and destroy their ancient faith, and in con- 
sequence bring incalculable mischief to the country, both 
temporarily and spiritually. De Montemar was no fcigot, 
looking only to violent measures for the extermination of this 
far-spreading evil ; but it grieved and affected him in no com- 
mon degree. He spent hours and hours with his confessor 
and his daughter in commune on this one engrossing subject ; 
and from the sincere and earnest lessons of the priest, a true 
and zealous though humble follower of his own church, he 
became more and more convinced of the truth of the olden 
creed, and what he deemed the foul and awful apostasy of the 
uew. 


278 


IDALIE. 


Yet no violence of party spirit mingled in these dis* 
cussions, and therefore it was that Idalie felt the conviction 
of the truth and beauty of her long cherished religion sink 
into her soul like balm. Saddened by her individual sorrow, 
shrinking in consequence from all the exciting amusements 
then reigning in France, her father’s favorite subject became 
equally a resource and comfort to her, thus unconsciously 
fitting her for the martyr part which she was only too soon 
called upon to play. 

The Count de Montemar had been a soldier from his 
youth, and was still suffering from the serious wounds receiv- 
ed in his last campaign. Within the last three months he had 
gradually become weaker and weaker, till at length Idalie 
watched beside the couch, from which she had been told that 
her beloved and loving parent would never rise again. She 
had heard it with an agony of sorrow, which it was long ere 
the kindly sympathy of the benevolent priest and of her cousin 
Louis could in any degree assuage. Motherless from early 
childhood, a more .than common tie bound her to her father ; 
and so deep was the darkness which those cruel tidings 
seemed to gather round her, that even love itself succumbed 
beneath it, and the strange, wild yearning rose, that she, too, 
might ‘‘ flee away, and be at rest.” 

Unable to endure any longer these sad thoughts, Idalie 
arose from the seat where she had kept vigil for many weary 
nights and days, and looked forth upon the night. The moon 
was at the full, and shed such clear and silvery light around, 
that even the rugged crags and stunted pines seemed softened 
into beauty. The vale beneath slumbered in shadow, save 
where, here and there, a solitary tree stood forth, seemingly 
bathed in liquid silver. Sweet odours from the flowers of the 
night lingered on the breeze, and the rippling gush of a 
streamlet, reflecting every star and ray upon its bosom, was 
the only sound that broke the slicnce. The holy calm of 
Nature touched a responding chord in the heart of the watcher, 
and even grief felt for the moment stilled. A few minutes 
afterwards the voice of the count recalled her to his side. 

“ Is it fancy, or was Louis here but now, my child ?” he 
asked feebly “ Is he from the court % and did he not bring 
news? Wherefore came he?” 

“ Because he heard that I was in sorrow, my dear father ; 
and he sought, as he ever does, to soothe, or at least to sharfl 
It.” 


IDALIE. 


279 


Bles? him for his faithful love ! He has in truth been to 
me a son, and will be to thee a brother, n^ine own love ; but 
tell me, is it indeed truth, or have my thoughts again wan* 
dered, has my young sovereign gone before me to the grave?” 

Alas ! my father, ’tis even so.” 

An expression of deep sorrow escaped the lip^of the dying 
man, and for several minutes he was silent. When again he 
spoke, his voice was firmer. 

Idalie, my child, I shall soon follow my royal master ; 
and it is well, for the regency of Catherine de Medicis can 
bring with it but misery. Listen to me, beloved one ! I 
leave thee sole heiress of our olden heritage, of a glorious 
name, which from age to age hath descended in a line so pure, 
so stainless, that the name of De Montemar hath become a 
very proverb for all honourable and knightly deeds. There 
have been times when daughters, not sons, succeeded ; and 
yet did its lusture not diminish nor its power decrease. Thou 
knowest this, my child. I know not wherefore I recall it 
now.” 

“ Dost thou doubt me, father ?” replied Idalie, sadly, and 
somewhat reproachfully. “ Thinkest thou my heart is so 
engrossed with selfish sorrows that I feel no pride, no love 
for mine ancient race, that its glory and its power shall de- 
crease with me?” 

“No, no, my noble child. Forgive me, I have pained 
thee, yet I meant it not.” Pausing a moment, he continued 
hurriedly, “ Idalie, our faith, our blessed faith is tottering, 
falling in this land. Each month, each week the heretics 
gain ground ; nor will all the bloody acts of Catherine and 
the princes of Guise arrest their progress. Were health and 
life renewed, I would neither raise sword nor kindle brand 
for their destruction ; but my whole soul trembles for my 
native land. Idalie, my child, I know thy heart beats true 
as mine to our ancient creed. I know thou wilt never turn 
aside thyself from the one true path ; but oh, for thy dead 
father’s sake, let not a heretic be master of these fair lands, 
and tempt thy vassals to embrace his soul-destroying creed. 
Thou wilt not wed with heresy, my child ?” 

“ Never, my father ! I can pity and pray for these mis- 
guided ones j but never shall my hand be given to one unfaith- 
ful to his God. Yet wherefore this fear? Am I not the 
plighted bride of one who would rather die than lead me 
astray, or turn aside himself?” 


280 IDALIE. i 

Tlie fading eyes of the dying lit suddenly up with feverish 
radiance, his cheek burned, and his mind evidently so fai ’ 
wandered as to prevent either his hearing or understanding 
his daughter’s last words. 

“ And thou wilt promise this?” he said, in a voice at once | 
alarmingly hollow, yet strangely excited ; “ thou wilt solemnly ! 

promise never to give thyself and thy fair heritage to the | 
heretic ; thou wilt not let the foul spot blacken our noble line ? J 
Promise me this, my child.” . S 

Alarmed at the change in his appearance, and convinced j 
that Montgomeri, who, when he left her, had been as true and I 
zealous a Catholic as herself, was not of a nature to change, 
Idalie knelt down beside the couch, and in distinct and solemn 
accents made the vow required. 

The Count de Montemar raised himself with sudden 
strength, and laid both his hands on the bent head of his 
child. “Now blessings, blessings on thee for this, my sainted 
one !” he said, distinctly ; “ thou hast removed all doubt, all 
fear; death has no terror now, no sting. God’s blessing be 
upon thee, love, and give — 

His voice sunk, but his lips still warmly pressed her brow, 
and minutes thus passed. A cloud had come before the 
moon, and when her light broke forth again, Idalie knelt by 
the couch of the dead. 


IV. 

Idalie de Montemar was not long permitted to indulge hei 
grief in solitude. Scarcely two months after her loss, an ex- 
press arrived from Paris, and she was compelled to prepare 
her chateau and vassals for the reception of the young king, 
the queen mother, and court, who in their progress to the 
south passed through Auvergne. Idalie roused herself from 
the sorrow which weighed so heavily on her spirits. Although 
chivalry had lost much of the enthusiasm and warmth which 
had characterised it not half a century previous, its memory 
still lingered in the minds of men ; and something of this feel- 
ing actuated the men of Montemar as they looked on their 
youthful countess. Shrinking and timid as she had been while 
her parent lived, a new spirit now seemed her own ; and it was 
with all the proud consciousness that she was now sole repre- 
Bentative of one of the most ancient and most noble families ot 


IDALIE. 


281 


Fxance that Idali^ de Montemar, at the head of her loyal vas* 
sals, received her royal guests, and knelt in homage to the 
youthful Charles. 

But amid all that royal group only one had power over the 
heart of Idalie, and she grieved to see the saddened brow and 
anxious glance, which had usurped the place of the radiant 
smiles and sparkling eye, which had never before failed to 
beam forth from the lovely countenance of Mary Queen of 
Scots. Robed so completely in white (the .jostume of royal 
widowa) as to receive the designation of La Reine blanche, her 
beauty rather increased than diminished by its softened tone ; 
she was to many an object of still deeper interest now than she 
had been hitherto ; but it was very soon evident to Idalie th^^t 
the petty mortifications springing from rooted envy and dis- 
like, to which she was daily almost hourly subjected by Cath- 
erine, were poisoning all youthful enjoyment, and that even 
while she clave with her whole soul to France, she felt it must 
not be her home much longer. 

Feeling deeply, as she did, that it was to Mary’s faithful 
friendship her betrothed husband owed his life, Idalie’s high 
spirit rose indignant at this treatment. That the marked 
respect with which she treated her, the constant deference to 
her wishes, during the royal sojourn, exposed her to Cathe- 
rine’s fatal malice, she cared not for. Soothed by her affec- 
tion, roused to a sense of her own dignity as sovereign of 
Scotland, if no longer of France, it was during her sojourn 
at the Chateau de Montemar, Mary resolved on her return to 
her native land, and by earnest persuasions prevailed on the 
young countess to sue for the royal permission to accompany 
her. It was granted, ungraciously enough ; for her engage- 
ment with the Count de Montgomeri was known, and the ha- 
tred borne by Catherine de Medici? towards that unfortunate 
nobleman, had in no way diminished by time. 

“Will the good Count Gabriel de Lorges accompany his 
young bride on her return ? Know ye, my lords, if so, we will 
give him welcome,” the queen mother soon after inquired, in 
the hearing of Idalie, and in a voice so peculiarly sweet and 
gracious as to cause the countess’s heart, for the moment, to 
bound up with sudden hope of hi? permitted, even welcomed 
return, and then as suddenly sink down, she knew not where- 
fore, save that Catherine’s deadliest purposes ever breathed 
through smiles. 

A few months after her visit to the chateau Mary quitted 


282 


IDALIE. 


France, attendeil by Idalie de Montemar, and some othei 
youthful friends, to whom she clung, as the sole memories left 
her of that beautiful and happy land, which her foreboding 
spirit whispered she should never look on more. Intent on 
soothing the grief of her royal friend, Idalie had but little 
time to think of her ovra feelings ; but when she did seek to 
define them, she became conscious that they were not all joy. 
Again did the same dim shadow envelope every thought, ever^ 
hope directed towards the hour of meeting. Every day that 
brought it nearer seemed to throw a chilling weight on her 
heart’s ecstatic bound. Her very love felt too intense, too 
twined with her being, to find rest, even in the thought of look- 
ing on him, listening to him again. She strove with the base- 
less shadow, but it clung pertinaciously to every mental image, 
and weighed upon her spirits like lead. 

Scotland was reached at last ; the heavy pomp and cere- 
mony attending the sovereign’s landing and progress to Holy- 
rood at length at an end, and Idalie had retired to the chamber 
appointed for the use of herself and suite, seeking calmness 
and rest from the opposing emotions at one and the same time 
engrossing her. 

Why should she not be joyful? the morrow Montgomeri 
would be at her side once more, and all unchanged to her ; not 
a doubt had stolen on the bright vision of his love, not a shade 
darkened the pure thoughts of his constancy — what then did 
she dread ? 

A summons to the chamber of the queen startled her, for 
she had been dismissed, she thought, for the night. Hastily 
obeying, she ran lightly along the private gallery pointed out 
as her nearest way, and without pausing drew aside the arras 
and entered. A cry of astonishment, of bliss at the same mo- 
ment escaped her lips, and, clasped to the heart of the Count 
de Montgomeri, all darkness and dread faded for the time in 
a burst of happy tears upon his bosom. 

V. 

“ Nay, chide me not, that my cheek is paler than when we 
parted, dearest,” said Idalie, after long and earnest commune^ 
as they sat together the following day in an olden chamber 
of Holyrood, far removed from the sovereign and the court 
“ Thou too art changed ; and if in thee, a soldier and a man, 


IDALIE. 


283 


absence can have wrought furrows on thy brow, pallor on thy 
cheek, and even touched thy hair with grey, is it strange that 
I, a poor weak girl, should suffer too ? I scarce had loved 
thee, Gabriel, had there been no change.” 

“ I would not have taxed thy love, even had it left less 
touching impress on thy cheek,” replied the count ; “ but for 
me, harsh storms and ruffled thoughts have joined with the 
yearning thoughts for thee to make me as thou seest. Why 
look upon me thus ? canst doubt me, dearest ?” 

“Oh, no, no ! thy love is not changed, save that it may be 
dearer still; but thine eyes looked not thus the day we 
parted. There are deeper, sterner feelings in thy soul than 
heretofore ; the change is there. The storms of which thou 
speakest have not been outward only — glory, ambition, love, 
are not the sole occupants of thy spirit now.” 

“ And what if thou hast read aright, sweet one, wilt thou 
not love thy soldier still?” 

“ Oh, yes ! for nought could enter the heart of De Lorges 
his Idalie may not revere. But tell me these inward storms 
— ^why is thy look, save when it is turned on me, so strangely 
stern ? It was not always thus ?” 

“ Call it not stern, my love : ’tis but the shadow of my 
spirit’s change. I did not think thou wouldst so soon have 
marked it ; yet ’tis not sternness, or if it be, ’tis only towards 
myself. When we parted, dearest, I lived for earth and 
earthly things ; but with sorrow came thoughts of that higher 
world, which must banish the idle smile and idler jest ; ’tis 
thus that I am changed.” 

“ And is this all ?” faltered Idalie, looking fearfully in his 
face ; “ is this enough to cause the struggle, of which thy cheek 
and brow bear such true witness ? The thought of heaven 
brings with it but balm and rest — not strife and pain. Gabriel, 
this is not all.” 

“ It is not all, my own ! I would not have a thought con- 
cealed from thee ; and yet I pause, fearing to give thee pain. 
Listen to me, beloved one ! and oh, believe, Montgomeri would 
not lightly turn aside from the path his fathers trod ; yet hast 
thou seen, as I have, the gross crimes, the awful passions, which 
have crept into the bosom of our holy church ; the fearful 
darkness of ignorance and bigt try overspreading the pure light 
marking the path of Jesus, thou wouldst feel with me, and 
acknowledge that I could not think of God and heaven, and 
yet be other than I am. Idalie, speak to me ! wherefore art 
thou thus ?” jg 


284 


IDALIE. 


He ceased in terror; her features had become contracted^ 
his lip and cheek blanched almost as death. Her large eyes 
distended in their terrible gaze upon himself, and the hands 
which had convulsively closed on his, were cold and rigid as 
stone. 

“ It cannot, cannot be,” she murmured, in a low shudder* 
ing tone. “ Montgomeri could not be other than true ; no, 
no. Why will you speak thus, love?” she added, somewhat 
less unnaturally. What can such strange words mean, save 
that thy sword, like my father’s, will never be unsheathed in 
persecuting wars — answer me, Gabriel, is it not so ?” 

“ Alas ! my love, I may not rest in quiet when the weapon 
of every true man is needed to protect the creed which con- 
viction has embraced. In these dark times this badge of Pro- 
testantism and tjje sword of defence must ever be raised to- 
gether. Idalie, the world may term me heretic ; but thou — ” 

“Thou art no heretic ; no, no — it cannot be !” burst from 
the wrung heart of Idalie, as she wildly sprung from his em- 
brace. Montgomeri, thou art deceiving me — thou wouldst try 
the love I bear thee ! Oh, not thus, not thus ! Say thou art 
no heretic ; thou art still the man my father loved, trusted, 
blessed ; him to whom he gave his child. Speak to me ; answer 
me — but one word !” 

“ I will, I will, mine own ! let me but see thee calm. Am 
I not thine own ? Art thou not mine ? Come to my heart, 
sweet one ; thou wilt find no change towards thee !” 

“ Answer me,” she reiterated ; “ Gabriel, thou hast not 
answered ! By the love thou bearest me, by the vow unto my 
father — to love and cherish me till death — by thine own truth 
— I charge thee answer me, thou art no heretic ?” 

“ If to raise my voice against the gross abuses fostered by 
the Pope and his pampered minions in every land, to deny to 
them all allegiance, to refuse all l^elief in the intervention of 
saints and martyrs, or that absolution, bought and sold, can 
bring pardon and peace ; if to read and believe the Holy 
Scriptures, and follow as they teach — if this is to be a heretic, 
Idalie, even for thy dear sake, I may not deny it Yes, dearest, 
I am a heretic in all, save love for thee !” 

A low, despairing cry broke from those blanched lips, and 
Idalie fell forward at his feet. It seemed long ere Montgomeri 
could restore her to life, though he used a tenderness and skill 
strange in a rough warrior like himself ; but no fond look re- 
turned his anxious gaze. She struggled to withdraw herself from 


IDALIE. 


28 ^ 


his embrace, but the tone of reproachful agony with which he 
pronounced her name rendered the struggle vain ; and, cling- 
ing to him, she sobbed, 1 thought not of this, dreamed not 
of this ; even in the dark foreboding haze clinging round the 
hour of meeting. Grabriel, in mercy leave me, or I shall for- 
get my vow, and hurl down on me the wrath of the dead.” 

“ Leave ihee ! — vow ! — wrath of the dead !” he repeated. 
“ Oh, do not talk so wildly, love ; reproach, upbraid me, as 
tliou wilt; but tell me not to leave thee. Wherefore should 
we part ?” 

•‘Gabriel, it must be! I have no strength when I gize 
on thee. Let not perjury darken this deep misery ; leave 
me !” 

“ Perjury ! what hast thou sworn?” demanded Montgomeri, 
hoarse, and choked with strong emotion. 

“ Never to wed with heresy I To retain the faith of my 
ancestors pure and unsullied as I received it. My father, from 
bis bed of death, demanded this vow, and I pledged it un- 
hesitatingly ; for could I doubt thee .?” 

She had spoken with unnatural composure, but there was 
such a sudden and agonized change on the features of the 
count, that it not only banished calmness, but reaws>kened 
hope 

“ Oh, say thou wert deceiving me, Gabriel. Dearest Gab- 
riel. have I not judged thee wrongly that still we may pray 
together as we have pra 3 ^ed? Thou hast not turned aside 
from our old and sainted creed. Say but this grief is causeless ; 
that 1 may still love thee without sin ; that there is no need 
to part I” 

“ Part I” he passionately exclaimed, “ and from thee ? Oh, 
no, no !” 

“ Then thou art, in truth, no heretic? It has all been a 
dark and terrible dream, and we shall be happy yet, love!” 
she answered, in a voice of such trusting joyance, that Mont- 
gomeri started from her side, and hurriedly paced the room. 

She laid her hand gently on his arm, and looked up con- 
fidingly in his face ; but its expression was enough. Shrink- 
ing from him. she implored, Gabriel, Gabriel, look not on 
me thus, or that fearful dream will come again !” 

“ Would, would to God it were a dream !” he exclaimed, 
and his hands clasped both hers with convulsive pressure. 
“ Idalie, I am no Catholic; I dare not again kneel as I have 
Knelt, or pray as I have prayed. No, not even to retahi thy 


286 


IDALIE. 


precious love, to claim thee mine — thee, dearer than life, than 
happiness, than all, save eternity — I dare not deny my faith. 
But, oh, is there no other way ? Can it he, that for this, a 
linn conviction of truth, an honest avowal of that which my 
soul believes, for this that we must part ? Idalie, canst thou 
sentence me to this 

I have sworn,” she said, her white lips quivering with the 
effort. My vow is registered in heaven — sworn unto the 
dead ; by death only to be absolved.” 

“ To retain the line of Montemar unsullied in its ancient 
faith. Idalie, oh, hear me ; let me plead njw ! Give to Louis 
de Montemar the government of thine ancestral lands, the con- 
trol of thy vassals. Thou shalt seek them when thou wilt, 
unaccompanied by thy husband, unshackled by his counsels. 
I ask but for thee ; and here, far removed from the blood and 
misery deluging unhappy France, we may live for each other 
still. May not this be, love, and yet thy vow remain un- 
broken ?” 

“ Montgomeri, it may not be,” she said, in a low yet col- 
lected tone, for it seemed as if the noble spirit of her race 
returned to give her strength for that harrowing hour. 

“ Tempt me not by such words as these — the love I bear 
thee is trial all-sufficient. My oath was pledged that I would 
never wed witli heresy — never give my hand to one unfaithful 
to our old and sainted creed. Perchance that oath alone may 
save me from a like perdition, and if so, then is it well.” 

“ And dost thou scorn me for this — despise and loathe 
me? Oh, Idalie, thou knowest not all I have endured. In 
mercy add not to the anguish of this hour, by scorn of the 
change which imperious conscience alone had power to impel.” 

“ Scorn thee, INIontgomeri ! No ; if thou, the good, the 
wise, can thus decide, and so find peace, is it for me to judge 
thee harshly? No, Idalie can never blame thee, Gabriel.” 

He caught her to his heart, and she resisted not the im- 
passioned kisses he pressed on cheek and brow. She felt his 
hot tears fall fast upon her face, for in that suffering hour it 
was the iron-souled warrior that wept, not the pale, slight girl 
he held. 

“ This must not be, beloved,” she whispered, in low sooth- 
ing tones. “ Montgomeri, my noble love — for in this last hour 
I may still call thee so — oh, rouse thee from this woman’s 
weakness ; this is no mood for thee. Thou must forget me. 
Gabriel ; or so think of me as to be once again the brave, the 


IDALIE. 


287 


high'Soalcd warrior thou hast ever been. For my sake, roiuse 
thee, love ! The God we part to serve will hear my prayers, 
and bless thee.” 

“ And tliou !” burst passionately from the lips of the count. 
“ Oh, what shall comfort thee, and fill for thee the void of 
everlasting absence ? In the rush of battle the warrior may 
find forgetfulness in death ; but — 

“ No, no, not death ; Gabriel, for my sake,-live, though not 
for me ; add not this pang to a heart already tried enough. 
Promise me to live, and for me ! Leave me to my God, Mont- 
gomeri, and He will give me peace.” 

He could not answer, and minutes — many minutes — rolled 
away, and neither moved from the detaining arras of the other. 
Fortunately perhaps for both, a page entered with a summons 
to the count from the queen. Idalie lifted up her head, and 
while her very blood seemed turned to ice a smile circled 
that pale lip. 

“ Thou must leave me, dearest. Mary loves not to wait, 
indulgent as she is.” 

“ Hut we shall meet again, sweet love?” 

There was no answer ; but Montgomeri would not under- 
stand that silence. He strained her once more to his heart, 
and turned away : another minute the arras fell, and he was 
gone. Idalie made one bound forward, as if to detain him, 
and, with a low shuddering cry, dropped senseless on the 
ground. 


VT 

It was in a lordly chamber of the Chateau de Montemar, 
about three months after the event narrated in our last chap- 
ter, that the only remaining scions of that noble house were 
seated in earnest and evidently sorrowful converse. The 
beams of the sun, rendered gorgeous by the richly-stained 
glass of the antique windows through which they passed, fan- 
tastically tinged the oaken floor and walls. The furniture 
was of ebony, inlaid with silver, interspersed with couches and 
cushions of tapestry, ancient as the days of Matilda of Flan- 
ders, which, though somewhat heavy in themselves, accorded 
well with the aspect of solemn grandeur prevading the whole 
ipartment. 

“ Ho not refuse me, Louis,” pleaded Idalie, after a long 


288 


IDALIE. 


and painful discussion relative to her papers and parchments, 
which strewed the table, had passed between them ; “ do not 
thus entreat me to retain mine heritage. Is a broken heart, 
a sinking frame fit chief for Montemar? I have borne much, 
suffered much, sought even the court of Charles, which my 
whole soul loathes, to obtain the transferment to thee of all 
my earthly possessions, and now do not refuse to relieve me 
of their heavy charge.” 

“ But only wait awhile, sweet cousin,” he replied ; “ sorrow 
has had as yet no time to expend its force. Do not act so 
soon on the resolution of a moment’s agony; wait but one 
brief year, and think well on all you would resign. Has 
earth no spell to fright away thy purpose ?” 

“None; it is but the casket, whence the jewel has de- 
parted. Nay more, it is filled with hopes I dare not hope, 
and thoughts I dare not think. I would fly from these.” 

“ And will a convent aid thee so to do ?” 

“ I know not ; yet there at least temptation, which I have 
no strength to meet, will not assail me more.,” 

“No strength to meet ! Dearest Idalie, the martyr at the 
stake might envy thee thy strength.” 

“Not now, Louis, it has all gone from me,” and for the 
first time her voice quivered, and she buried her face in her 
clasped hands. A fierce malediction on Montgomeri was 
burst’ng from the lips of Louis, as he looked on the faded 
form, and seemed to feel for the first time the full extent of 
his cousin’s agony. Young, buoyant, and ever joyous himself, 
Idalie’s perfect calmness since her return had deceived him ; 
but the tone in which those few words were said strangely and 
suddenly revealed the whole, and the young man’s whole heart 
spoke in his half-uttered curse. 

“No, no; curse him not, Louis!” passionately implored 
Idalie. “ Promise me, by the sweet memories of our child- 
hood, still to be his friend. In these awful times, when the 
poisoned draught and midnight dagger are ever near these 
persecuted men, be near him to warn, shield, save.” 

“ I will, I will, for thy sweet sake,” he replied earnestly. 
“Yet why fear such danger for him? he never will be rash 
enough to return to France.” 

“ Louis, he is even now in France, and therefore is it I so 
conjure you to be his friend. He is here, may be near me 
still, even as he hovered close beside me in my passage home. 
He thought to be unknown, even to me ; me, whom he was 


IDALIE. 


289 


there to guard, protect to the last, speaking not one word to 
betray himself, or give me again the torture of farewell. I 
knew him close beside me ; I heard the disguised accents of his 
voice, and yet we were as if the grave had parted us. Oh, 
Louis, Louis ! the strength which then upheld me has de- 
parted from me 5 I dare not look upon his face and listen to 
his voice again. Only the convent walls can shield me from 
a bvjken vow, a dead father’s curse; and wilt thou keep me 
from their refuge? No, no; relieve me from this fearful 
heritage, and let me he at peace 

One week after Louis de Montemar had been acknowledged 
by all the vassals of his cousin as their suzerain or feudal 
lord, to whom and to his heirs they had sworn undying alle- 
giance, Idalie stood within the convent church of our Lady 
of Montemar, preparing to take thq^e awful vows which sev- 
ered her from earth, and all its cares and joys, and hopes and 
woes, for ever. It was midnight, but the large waxen tapers 
burning on the high altar and many shrines completely illu- 
minated the main body of the church, while the deep shadows 
of the aisles and more distinct arches of the nave heightened 
the effect of light, and rendered the building larger in appear- 
ance than in reality. Clouds of incense floated on the air, 
from the rich silver censers held by six beautiful boys, clothed 
in white, standing on either side the altar. Behind, and ex- 
quisitely illuminated by a peculiarly softened light falling 
full upon it, hung a picture of the Saviour kneeling in the 
garden of Gethsemane, his countenance powerfully expressive 
of the words, “Nevertheless, not what I will, but what Thou 
wilt.” 

The church was crowded in the nave and aisles, the choir 
and chancel being left for the relations of the novice and those 
of higher rank. As Idalie had but few of the former, and 
had particularly wished the ceremony to be as private as pos- 
sible, these parts of the building were comparatively unoccu- 
pied, except by monks and priests. 

Clothed with unwonted gorgeousness, Idalie stood beside 
the altar. A rich robe of grey Genoa velvet descended to her 
feet, sweeping the marble ground in heavy folds, girded round 
the waist with a broad belt of large rubies and opals ; glit- 
tering stars of the same clasped down the stomacher, and 
looped the wide sleeves of richest lace, and braids of dia- 
monds glistened in the dark tresses of her hair, and sparkled 


290 


IDALIE. 


on the high, pure brow, which, marble pale, seemed all unfit- 
ted for their weight. Her eyes were raised, her lips slightly 
parted, her thin white hands crossed upon her bosom, as in 
the heartfelt utterance of voiceless prayer. Silence, deep as 
the grave, had succeeded the priest’s prayer, lasting but a mo- 
ment, for Idalie sinking noiselessly on the ground, the black 
pall was thrown over her, and the distant discharge of cannon, 
mingled with the muffled toll of the convent bell, proclaimed 
far and near that Idalie de Montemar was now an inmate of 
the tomb. A groan so deep and hollow at that instant rever- 
berated through the building, that all present started, and 
shudderingly drew nearer each other, unable to trace whence 
or from whom it came, until a tall shrouded figure was dis- 
covered leaning against one of the pillars supporting the arched 
roof of the choir ; his face was buried in his cloak, but he 
was seen to shiver, as by some rudely-passing wind. The or- 
gan swelled forth in thrilling tones the requiem for the dead, 
sweet childish voices prolonged the solemn strain, till it faded 
softer and softer in the distance, swelling, falling, then dying 
all away. Removing the pall, the priests waited for Idalie to 
rise and kneel before the altar, that the ceremony might con- 
tinue. They waited, but there was no movement. She lay 
even as she had fallen. A cry of terror burst from the aged 
priest, and at the same instant, heedless of the personal danger 
inseparable from discovery, bareheaded and unshrouded — 
heedless of all save one agonizing fear — Gabriel de Lorges 
rushed forwards, and knelt beside her. 

“ Idalie ! loveliest ! dearest ! speak to me, answer me ; say 
that I have not murdered thee ! Answer me, in mercy, but 
one word !” 

He spoke in vain. Louis de Montemar, priests, and many 
others crowded round him. They sought to withdraw her 
from Montgomeri’s convulsive hold, to wake her from the 
seeming trance. But all was useless; she had passed to 
heaven in that music swell. The broken-hearted was at rest.* 

♦The after-fate of the unfortunate but guiltless regicide belongs to 
history. 


f 


f al)2 6«sl]am’s |ttt. 

A TALE OF THE DAY. 

It was near the end of May, heantiful May, that month ol 
strange contrarieties in our lovely land. In the haunts of Na- 
ture, robed with such gorgeous beauty, bringing such a lavish 
garniture of tree and shrub, and flowers ; such fresh and dewy 
mornings ; such glorious sunsets ; and those soft sweet hours 
of twilight, so fraught with spiritual musings ; and those 
lovely nights, when the mind loses itself in the infinitude of 
thought, in the vain yearning to grasp something beyond our 
present being, in itself evidence of Immortality I In the city, 
in the proud metropolis, seat of empire and wealth, fashion 
and beauty, luxury and pleasure, crime and famine, misery and 
desolation, clothed as May still is with her natural beauty, we 
know her not, save as the “ Season !” and in that word what a 
host of thoughts spring up — enjoyment, luxury, fetes, balls, 
dinners ! These were once^ and but few years back, its sole 
association ; but now a mighty spirit is abroad, and over the 
festal halls a dim cloud is hovering, breathing of oppression 
born in that very thoughtless joyance. Through the gay music, 
the silvery laugh, the murmur of glad voices — aye, through 
every tone that tells of luxurious pleasure only — a thrilling 
cry is sounding ! the voice of suffering thousands, claiming 
brotherhood with Joy; demanding a portion of that which a 
beneficent Father ordained for all — rest, recreation, homes. 

In the drawing-room of one of the smaller mansions of the 
aristocratic west, a young lady was sitting near an open win- 
dow, inhaling the delicious scent of the beautiful flowers, 
which filled the balcony in such profusion that, shaded in the 
background as they were by the magnificent trees of the park, 
they looked as if the goddess May had brought a garden 
from her most sylvan haunts, to mark her presence even there. 

Lucy Neville, the sole inmate of this pleasant room, was 
neither very young nor very beautiful, yet she had charms 
enough to occasion some degree of wonderment that she 


292 


LADY Gresham’s fete. 


should have passed through four London seasons and attained 
• the venerable age of three-and- twenty, and was Lucy Neville 
still. She had the advantage of mingling with some of the 
most highly-gifted and most learned patriots of the age ; for 
her brother, Lord Valery, of whose house she was the sole 
mistress, was one of the most influential men of his day. She 
went into society also continually ; and, altogether, it was a 
constant marvel to all those who had nothing to do but to talk 
of their neighbours, why she had never married. Lucy Ne ville 
might not have had regular beauty, but she had something 
better — she had mind, and a heart so full of good and kindly 
feeling, that she was an exception to the general idea, that we 
must know sorrow ourselves before we can feel for others; 
She was, indeed, only just putting OS’ mourning for a young 
and darling brother ; but she had begun to think years before 
that, and the six months of quietude had only deepened, not 
created, the principles on which she acted. 

‘‘ Visitors so late ! why, it is just six o’clock !” passed 
through her mind, as a loud, impetuous ring announced a 
carriage ; and a party of young ladies, of ultra-fashionable 
exterior, hurried into the drawing-room, all talking at once, 
and of something so very delightful, that Miss Neville had 
greh,t difficulty in comprehending their meaning. 

“ Now, Lucy, don’t look so bewildered. You are quick 
enough at comprehension sometimes, and I really want yon to 
understand me with a word now, for I am in a terrible hurr^. 
I ought to have come to you by eleven this morning, but 
really this short invitation has given me so many things to 
think about, I could not.” 

“ But what am I to understand, Charlotte ?” replied Miss 
Neville, laughing so good humouredly, that it was difficult to 
discover whj those of her own age and standing so often kept 
aloof from her, as having so little in common. “ Laura- - 
Mary — have pity on my obtuseness.” 

“ Why, Lady Gresham’s long-talked-of fjte is fixed at last ; 
and of course you will go. Y our invitation was enclosed in 
mamma’s last night. Absolutely her ladyship condescends to 
entreat her to introduce you. I cannot imagine the reason of 
this sudden empresspment — she could have visited you long 
ago, had she wished it.” 

“ She did wish it individually, I believe ; but an unfortu- 
nate misunderstanding between her brother and mine prevent* 
ed it. Edward has long wished the estrangement to cease, sc 


LADY Gresham’s pete. 


293 


r shall be very happy to meet her half way, and accept the 
invitation. When is it ?” 

“ Next Monday.” 

“Monday! Why, to-day is Friday I You must mean 
Monday week I” 

“ Indeed I do not. How she will manage I cannot tell, 
except that when people have more wealth than they know 
what to do with, they can do what tliey please. Her villa at 
Richmond, too, is just the place for a fHe chamvetre ; and the 
novel shortness of the invitation, and being the day before a 
drawing-room, will crowd her rooms, depend upon it. It is 
something unusually exciting, the very bustle of the thing.” 

“ But I thought it was not to be until — ” 

“Until Herbert Gresham returned. Nor will it. He ar- 
rives to-morrow night, or some time on Sunday, quite sudden- 
ly, not having been expected for several weeks yet. What with 
his foreign honours, his promised baronetcy, and last, not least, 
his distinguished appearance, he will be sought and feted by 
all the money-loving mammas and husband-seeking daughters 
for the remainder of the season.” 

“ The worst of its being fi fHe champHre is, that we must 
have complete new dresses,” rejoined Laura. “ And how to 
coax papa for the necessary help, I know not ; my last quarter 
was all gone before I received it, and my debts actually fright- 
en me. But what is to be done ? go I must.” 

“ And then the shortness of the notice I” continued Mary ; 
“ really Lady Gresham might have given us more time. Who 
can decide what to wear, or even what colour, in three days?” 

“ Come, Lucy, decide I But of course you will go !” ex- 
claimed Charlotte, impatiently. “ It will be your first appear- 
ance in public this season, and so you can have nothing to 
think about in the way of expense. Nothing but the trouble 
of seeing about a new dress.” 

“ Which will prevent my going, much as I might wish 
it,” replied Miss Neville, very quietly, though the faint tinge 
rising to her cheek, and the quiver of the lip, might have be- 
trayed some degree of internal emotion. 

Prevent your going I What can you possibly mean ?” 
exclaimed all her guests together. 

“ That as it is now six o’clock on Friday, and you tell me 
t<ady Gresham’s fete is three o’clock on Monday, I have not 
sufiicient time to procure all I want (for having been so long 
in mourning, I have literally nothing that will do) without 


294 


LADY Gresham’s fete, 


breaking a resolution, and sacrificing a principle, wLicli I dc 
not feel at all inclined to do.” 

“ Sacrificing a principle ! Lucy, you are perfectly ridicu- 
lous ! What has principle to do with a fete champetre 1 Your 
head is turned with the stupid cant of oppressing, and the 
people, as if we had not annoyances, and vexations, and pres- 
sure too, when we want more money than we happen to have ! 
And as for time, what is to prevent your sending to Mrs, 
Smith to-night, (by-the-bye. how can you employ an English 
artiste?) and get all you want by ten o’clock on Monday morn- 
ing ? Why, I cannot even give an order till after the post 
comes in to-morrow. I must wait to know what was worn at 
the Duchesse de Nemours’ /eie champetre the other day. One 
feels just out of the ark, in England.” 

“ And I am sure I cannot decide what to wear till then,” 
languidly remarked Mary. 

“ And as for me, I am in a worse predicament than either 
of you,” laughed Laura, but her laugh was not a gay one. 
“ Raise the wind I must, but it requires time to think how.” 

We have no space to follow this conversation further. Per- 
suasions, reproaches, and taunts assailed Miss Neville on all 
sides, but she did not waver. Charlotte left her in high dud- 
geon ; Mary marvelled at her unfortunate delusion, quite con- 
vinced that she was on the verge of insanity ; and Laura wish- 
ing that she could but be as firm. Not that she comprehend- 
ed or allowed the necessity of the principle on which she acted, 
but only as it would save her the disagreeable task of think- 
ing how to get the necessary costume, when both modiste and 
leweller had refused to trust her any more. 

For nearly half an hour Lucy remained sitting where her 
visitors had left her, her hands pressed on her eyes, and her 
whole posture denoting a painful intensity of thought. Her- 
bert Gresham returning ' His mother's unexpected and press- 
ing invitation ! Could it be that the bar between the families 
was indeed so entirely removed, that she might hope as sha 
had never dared hope i^efore? Sir Sydney’s hatred to her 
brother, from some political opposition, had been such, it was 
whispered at the time, that he had obtained his nephew seme 
honourable appointment abroad, only because he feared that 
he not only loved Lucy, but leaned towards Lord Valery’s po- 
litic‘>l opinions. Four years had passed since then, and Her- 
bert Gresham was no longer a cipher in another’s hands. He 
had formed his own principles, marked out his own course ; 


LADY GRESHAjrS FETE. 


295 


and Lttcy heard his name so often and so admiringly from hei 
brother’s lips, that the dream of her first season could not pass 
away, strive against it as she might, for she knew not whether 
she claimed more than a passing thought from him who held 
her being so enchained. And now he was returning ; and to 
the fete to welcome him she was invited, with such an evident 
desire for her presence, that her heart bounded beneath the 
thronging fancies that would come, seeming to whisper it was at 
his instigation. And why could she not go? Was it not, in- 
deed, a quixotic and uncalled-for sacrifice? How could the 
resolution of one feeble individual aid in removing the heavy 
pressure of over-work from the thousands of her fellow-crea- 
tures? There was time, full time, for all she required, if she 
saw about it at once. It was but adding an atom to the weight 
of oppression, which, whether added or withheld, could be of 
no moment ; and surely, surely, for such a temptation there 
was enough excuse. How would Herbert construe her ab- 
sence, if, indeed, it was at his wish the invitation came? Why 
might she not 

“ Lucy, seven o’clock and not ready for dinner ! Why, 
what are you so engrossed about ?” exclaimed her brother, 
half-jestingly, half-anxiously, the latter feeling prevailing, as 
she hastily looked up. A few, a very few words, and he 
understood it alt. 

“ And yet I know, even under such circumstance, you will 
not fail,” he said ; and how powerful is the voice of affection- 
ate confidence in the dangerous moment of hesitation between 
right and wrong ! “You may, indeed, be but one where there 
needs the aid of hundreds ; but if all hold back because they 
are but one, how shall we gain the necessary muster? To 
check this thoughtless waste of human life, this (in many) un- 
conscious crushing of all that makes existence, is woman’s 
work. Man may legislate, may theorise, but he looks to his 
female relatives for its practical fulfilment. Dearest, do you 
choose the right, and trust me, useless as the sacrifice now 
seems, you will yet thank God that it was made. 

Lady Gresham’s fete was brilliant, recherche — crowded as 
anticipated. The weather was lovely, the gardens magnifi- 
cent, the arrangements in the best state that an ultra-fashion- 
ist of some thirty years’ experience could devise. Youth, 
beauty, rank, wealth, all were there, and the female portion 
Bet off to the best advantage by an elegance of costume and 


296 


LADY Gresham’s fete. 


an extreme carefulness of attire, without which all knew an 
entrance into Lady Gresham’s select coterie could never bo 
obtained. A despot in the empire of dress and appearance, 
she little knew, and still less cared, for all the petty miseries 
(alas, that such a word should be spoken in the same breath 
with dress !) which her invitations usually excited. The re- 
solve to outvie — the utter carelessness of expenditure while 
the excitement lasted — the depression, almost despair, at the 
accumulated debts which followed — the rivalry of a lirst 
fashion — the petty manoeuvres not to give a hint of the in- 
tended costume, and the equally petty manoeuvres to discover 
it — the mortification when, after all the lavish expense, all the 
mysteries, others appeared more fashionable, more recherche — 
the disgust with which, in consequence, the previously consid- 
ered jierfect dress was henceforth regarded — these, and a hun- 
dred other similar emotions had been, during the “ season,” 
called forth again and again ; and in beings destined for 
immortality! was it marvel they had no thought for other 
than themselves? 

That this fete was in commemoration of Herbert Gres 
ham’s return, and that he was present, the hero of the day, 
not a little increased its excitement and importance. But he 
moved amongst his mother’s guests with native and winning 
courtesy indeed, but as if his mind were engrossed with 
other and deeper things. In the four years of his absence 
many changes, powerful in themselves, but still only invisibly 
working had taken place in the political aspect of his country. 
By means of private correspondence with the most influential 
men of the day, and through the public journals, he had felt 
the deepest interest in these changes ; and from the very fact 
of his looking on from a distance, and not mingling with the 
contending waves of party, he had formed clearer views con-, 
cerniiig them than many on the spot. He had returned, 
determined to devote the whole energies of his powerful mind 
to removing invisible oppression, so lessening labour that 
MIND might resume her supremacy, and create for every posi- 
tion its own immortal joys. He was no leveller of ranks ; 
no believer in that vain dream, equality. He had travelled 
and thought much, and felt to his heart’s core the superiority 
of England as a nation, both for constitution and morality : 
but this conviction, instead of blinding him to her faults, 
quickened his perceptions, not only regarding the evils, but 
their causes, and increased the intensity of his desire to 
remove them. 


LADY Gresham’s fete. 


297 


It was not, however, only the habitude of thought which, 
jQ this occasion, had given him a look of abstraction. He 
was disappointed. His mother had told him that, in com- 
pliance with his desire, all foolish coolness between his familj 
and that of Lord Valery should cease — she had condescended 
to make advances to Miss Neville, which were coldly rejected. 
She did not tell him that these advances had been merely an 
invitation to her fete (of whose sudden arrangement Herbert 
was himself unconscious), and did not know herself, and cer- 
tainly would never have imagined the real reason of Lucy's 
refusal. Before the day closed, however, her son was destined 
to be enlightened. 

He was standing near a group of very gay young ladies 
and gentlemen, conversing at first on grave topics with a 
friend, when his quick ear' was irresistibly attracted by the 
mention of Miss Neville’s name, coupled with much satirical 
laughter. 

“ She will become a second Mrs. Fry, depend upon it,” 
was the observation of one. “ I should not be at all suprised 
that at last we shall find her making pilgrimages through the 
streets of London, to see if all the shops are closed at a cer- 
tain hour, and the released apprentices properly employed. 
She should set up an evening school for drapers’ assistants 
and milliners’ apprentices. Why don’t you propose it to her, 
Miss Balfour?” 

Charlotte, whose superb Parisian costume gave her the 
triumph of being almost universally envied, laughed, and 
declared it was too much trouble. 

You stand in rather too much awe of both her and Lord 
Valery,” was her brother’s rejoinder. ‘‘It is a pity, though, 
that Miss Neville has imbibed such outr^ notions, otherwise 
she would be a nice girl enough.” 

“ And did she really refuse to come only because the notice 
was too short for her to get a proper costume without injur- 
ing or oppressing — as the cant of the day has it — the poor 
luilliners? How perfectly ridiculous ! I am sure the 
who come for our orders are in the finest condition both as to 
health and wealth.” 

“ And the shopmen — they are sleek, gay, care-nothing 
looking follows. As for their needing greater rest, more 
recreation, opportunities to cultivate the mind, one has only 
to look at them to feel the pure romance of the thing. What 
we some people born for but to work ?” 


£98 


LADY Gresham’s fete. 


And just imagine how dull London would be if all the 
shops are closed by seven or eight o’clock ! I should lose 
half my enjoyment in walking to my club.” 

“ I should like to know what good Miss Neville and her 
party of philanthropists think they will accomplish by giving 
so much liberty and leisure. We shall have to build double 
the number of taverns, for such will be their only resort. 
What can such people know of intellectual amusement ?” . 

“ And if they did, what do they want with it? We should 
have a cessation of all labour, and then what is to become of 
us, or the country either ?” 

‘‘ It is pure folly. Some people must have a hobby to 
make a noise about ; and so now nothing is heard but op- 
pression, internal slavery, broken-hearted milliners’ apprenti- 
ces, and maimed drapers’ assistants ! Really, for so much 
eloquence, it is a pity they do not choose a higher subject !” 

And I wish the present subject may never drop till the 
work is done,” interposed Herbert Greaham^ joining the con- 
versation with a suddenness, and speaking with such startling 
eloquence, that it caused a general retreat of individual 
opinion. He would have been amused had he felt less inter- 
ested, to see the effect on both sexes of his unexpected inter- 
ference. He spoke very briefly, for he was too disgusted with 
the littleness, the selfishness, of all he had heard to attempt 
anything like argument. And the effort to excuse former 
sentiments — to dare say he was right, but they had not reflect- 
ed much about it — thought it a pity to alter things which had 
been going on so long — could not understand, even granting 
there was a good deal of misery, how it could be helped, but 
if Herbert Gresham thought it might be, no doubt there was 
more in it than they believed, and very many other similar 
speeches, only excited his contempt. 

We must change the scene, for our space will not allow us 
more than a slight sketch : a momentary glance, as it were, 
on things passing daily, hourly around, and yet seen, known 
of, by how few ! Four or five days after Lady Gresham’s 
fete. Miss Neville might have been seen entering one of 
those small, close, back streets, found even in the aristocratic 
west, and whose dilapidated dwellings present almost as great 
a contrast with the proud mansions which surround and 
conceal them as the inhabitants themselves. 

It was a poor old needlewoman whom Lucy was visiting, 
and, surprised at finding her usual sitting-room empty, and 


LADY Gresham’s fete. 


299 


fearing she was ill — ^for there was no sign of work ahonfc, and 
Mrs. Miller was infirm and ailing — she gently entered her 
sleeping apartment. The rough bed was occupied indeed 
but not by its usual inmate, who was sitting by its side, tears 
rolling down her withered cheeks, and her attention so fixed 
that she did not perceive Miss Neville’s entranee. She was 
watching the painful, restless movements of a girl, who, 
in a high state of delirium and fever, was lying on the 
pallet ; she was very young, and had been beautiful, but 
suffering had scarcely left any trace but its own. Earnestly 
and pityingly, Lucy entered into the sad, but only too 
common tale, her inquiries elicited ; but the old w.'man’s 
narration being garrulous and unfinished, we will give it in 
our own words. 

Fanny Roberts and Harry Merton, born and nurtured in 
the same village, had been playmates, schoolfellows, friends, 
and at last lovers — not only faithful and affectionate, but 
prudent and thoughtful. The parents of both were poor, 
even in their humble village, but the wishes and interests of 
their children were their first object, and to see them some- 
what higher in the world than themselves their sole ambition. 
To set up an establishment in the neighbouring town, com- 
bining linen-draper, dressmaker, and milliner, had been their 
day-dream from the time they had conned their school 
lessons and taken long walks together, instead of joining 
their playmates on the green ; and to fulfil this earnest wish, 
their parents, by many sacrifices, which, measured by their 
love, seemed absolutely nothing, gathered together sufficient 
to send them to London, and apprentice them there. Harry 
was then nineteen and Fanny two years younger. Hope was 
bright for both. Their only drawback seemed the impos- 
sibility of meeting more than once a week; and six days of 
entire separation was a weary interval to those accustomed to 
exchange affection’s kindly words and looks each day. Only 
too soon, however, did the oppressive reality of the present 
absorb the rosy hues of the future. On the daily routine of 
unmitigated work, the exhausting labour, the deadened 
energies, the absorption of every faculty in the depressing 
weariness, we need not touch. It was no distaste for work, 
for both had set to their respective duties with hearts burning 
to conquer every difficulty — to do even more than was re- 
quired of them, the sooner to gain the longed-for goal ; and 
had it not been for the fearful burden of over-work, the 


SOQ 


LADY GRESHAM^S FETE. 


absence of sufficient rest, of all wholesome recreation, how 
brightly and nobly might these young loving beings have 
walked the path of life, by mutual exertion creating a home, 
and all the joys, which, in England, that one word speaks ! 
Alas! ere eighteen months elapsed, every thought of buoyancy 
and joy seemed strangely to have deserted Fanny. She could 
not tell why, for outward things seemed exactly the same af 
they had been at first. Harry was still faithful, still fond. 
Her heart intuitively felt that he was altered. Why, she 
would often ask herself, could she no longtr feel happy? 
Why should every thought of her own dear home cause such 
a sickly longing for fresh air and green fields, that the 
hysteric sob would often rise choking in her throat, and mDre 
than once, nothing but a timely burst of incomprehensibla 
tears had saved her from fainting as she sat. She could not 
satisfy herself; but in reality it was the silent workings oi 
insidious disease, seeming mental, because impossible to be 
traced as physical, save by the constant sensation of weari- 
ness, which she attributed merely to sitting so long in close 
and crowded rooms ; but though happiness seemed gone, she 
retained the power of endurance ; woman can and will 
endure, but in nine cases out of ten, man cannot. In the one, 
sufleriiig often purifies ; in the other, it but too often de 
teriorates. 

Harry Merton had entered on his work joyfully and 
buoyantly, determined to make the best of everything, and 
be good friends with everybody. Naturally lively, with the 
power of very quick acquirement, and a restless activity of 
mind as well as body, a very few months’ trial convinced him 
that if he had not entirely mistaken his vocation, he certainly 
must do something to make it more endurable. He had 
heard of institutions for the people in London, of amusements 
open even to the most economical ; he had pictured enjoying 
them with his Fanny, and gaining improvement likewise. 
He found it all a dream. There were, indeed, such things, 
but not for him or her. The hour of his release found not 
only every wholesome amusement closed, but himself so 
weary, that mental recreation was impossible, and yet with 
the yearning for some pleasure, some relief from wearisome 
work, so natural in youth, stronger than ever. His convivial, 
unsuspecting disposition led him to join the most seemingly 
attractive, but in reality the most dangerous, of his com- 
panions. The consequences need scarcely be narrated. He 


LADY Gresham’s fete. 


SOI 


bejame intemperate, gay, reckless, looking back on the pure, 
fresh feelings of his early youth with wonder, and retaining 
but one of their memories, his love for Fanny; but even that 
was no longer the glad, hopeful feeling which it had been. 
He was constantly told, and he saw, that it must be years 
before they could marry. He was laughed at for imagining 
that either he or she would retain their early feelings. He 
heard her beauty admired, and ihen pitied as a most 
dangerous gift, which must eventually and most fearfully 
separate her from him ; and the most furious but most 
unfounded jealousy took possession of him, and so darkened 
every hour of meeting, that poor Fanny at length anticipated 
them with more dread than pleasure. It was long, indeed, 
nearly three years, before things came to such a crisis; but 
the gradual conviction of the deterioration of her layer’s 
character was to Fanny the heaviest suffering of all: that she 
still loved him, surely we need not say. She saw the 
circumstances of this miserable change, not the change itself. 
Her woman heart clung to him the more, from the very 
anxiety he inspired. So intensely did she mourn for his 
long, wearisome hours of joyless toil, that she scarcely felt 
her own ; though, when he was released at ten or eleven, 
she was often working unceasingly till two in the morning. 
The choking cough, the shortened breath, the aching 
spine, she scarcely felt, in the one absorbing thought of 
him. 

Whenever she could be spared, which in the “ season” was 
very seldom, it was Fanny’s custom to go to Mrs. Miller (her 
only friend in London) Saturday night and remain till 
Sunday evening. Two or three days before the invitations 
were out for Lady Gresham’s fete, a note was given to her 
from Harry, the perusal of which occasioned deeper suffering 
than anything she had yet endured. Snatching half an hour 
from the scanty time allowed for sleep, the following was her 
reply 

“ Harry ! Harry ! this from you ! when you so fondly 
promised you would never doubt me more! Yes, he did 
seek me that Saturday night, or rather Sunday morning, for 
it was one o’clock ; and I would not have gone there, had you 
not made me promise that I would not disappoint you, and 
that you would take me home. Why were you not there? 
Why did you leave me to the chance of such a meeting? 
And then upbraid me with putting myself in that bad man’s 


302 


LADY Gresham’s fete. 


way! Oil, Harry! Harry! by the memories of oar early 
home, our early love, spare me such unjust suspicion ! You 
tell me writing will not satisfy you, you must see me, hear 
from my own lips my version of this cruel and most false tale. 
How can I see you till Saturday night, the earliest, if then? 
Sunday, if I can only crawl to Mrs. Miller’s, indeed I will 
come, pain as it is now to move. Only trust me till then, 
dearest, dearest Harry. Do not add to your burden and 
mine by thoughts like these. You know that I am in- 
nocent; that I never have loved, never can love, any one but 
you.” 

The Sunday came, but Fanny was unable to keep her 
engagement Madame Malin was so overwhelmed with 
orders for Lady Gresham’s fete, that even the Sabbath-day 
was^ compelled to be sacrificed. The peculiar trimmings 
which it was absolutely necessary for Miss Balfour to have to 
complete the Parisian costume (the details of which- never 
arrived till eleven o’clock, Saturday, and then all the 
materials had to be purchased) were Fanny’s work ; and, from 
her delicate taste, she, of all the assistants, could the least be 
spared. In fact, extra hands were hired ; for to complete 
twenty or thirty full dresses from the noon of Saturday to ten 
o’clock Monday, in addition to those already in hand for the 
drawing-room the following day, was an unusual undertaking, 
even for the indefatigable Madame Malin. Hour after hour 
those poor girls worked, — through Saturday night, the 
yearned-for Sabbath, again late into the night, till many 
fainted on their seats, and the miserable toil was continued in 
a recumbent pos'.ure by those unable to sit upright. A dead 
weight was on poor Fanny’s heart, a foreboding misery ; but 
the sufferings of the frame were such as almost to deaden the 
agony of mind. The hour of release came at length, in- 
asmuch that, ill as she was, she craved permission to take 
home some of the dresses, that she might call at Mrs. Millers 
on her way back, and learn some news of Harry, and beseech 
her old friend to seek him, and tell him the reason of her 
forced absence. Exhausted and most wretched as she was, 
she had to waU till the dresses were tried on — the capricious 
humour of the young ladies proved, by altering, realtering, 
and final arrangement as they were originally — to bear with 
petty fault-finding — until her whole frame seemed one mass 
of nerve ; and so detained, that she only entered the street 
leading to her old friend’s abode, as the carriages whirled off 
their elegantly attired inmates to Lady Gresham’s fete. 


LADY GRESHAM’S PETE. 


303 


What a tale awaited her ! Harry, restless, miserable, — • 
almost maddened by the false reports against her, — and from 
the great pressure of business in his master’s shop, from the 
innumerable visits of modistes' assistants to procure the 
necessary materials so needed for the costumes of Mrs. 
Gresham’s fete, not released till past one o’clock Sunday 
morning, had perambulated the streets all night, in the vain 
hope of meeting Fanny, encountering one of his jovial com- 
panions, who, half-intoxicated, swore he had seen her entering 
a coach with — Merton knew whom — and when collared and 
shaken by the infuriated lover till he recovered his more sober 
senses, declared he could not tell exactly, but he thought it was 
her : at all events, Harry would know to-morrow, if she had 
gone as usual to Mrs. Miller’s. 

There she was not. I^ever before had six o’clock on 
Sunday evening come without her presence ; and really 
anxious, Mrs. Miller (though not believing a syllabic against 
her) conjured the unhappy young man to call himself at 
Madame Malin’s, and inquire if she were ill or detained. He 
did so. The well-instructed lacquey declared the family were 
all at evening service, and if the apprentices were not with 
their friends, he supposed they were there also ; he knew 
nothing about them ; but he was quite sure his mistress never 
permitted them to work on Sundays. Harry was in no state 
coolly to consider his words. He rushed back like a madman 
to Mrs. Miller, uttered a few incoherent sentences, and darted 
away before she had time or thought even to reply. That 
very evening he enlisted, and the Monday found him march- 
ing to Southampton with other troops about to embark for 
India. A few lines to Mrs. Miller told her this, and accom- 
panied a parcel directed to Fanny, in case she should ever see 
or hear of her again. Tne poor girl had just strength to tear 
it open, to discover all her letters and formerly treasured gifts, 
even to some withered flowers, returned with a few words of 
stinging reproach, bidding her farewell for ever, and dropped 
lifeless at the old woman’s feet. One or two intervals of co- 
herency enabled her, by a few broken phrases, to explain the 
reason of her absence ; but brain-fever followed, and even 
when Miss Neville saw her, all hope was over. Vain 
was the skill of the gifted and benevolent physician Lucy 
called in. Disease had been too long and too deeply rooted 
for resistance to a shock which, in its agony, would have 
prostrated even a healthy constitution. A few, a very few 


304 


LADY GRESHAM'S FETE. 


days of iotense suiferiiig, and the crushed heart ceased l6 
beat, the blighted frame to feel, and misery for her was over. 
]5ut for poor Harry — for the parents of both — what might 
comfort them? We have seen the deterioration of Harry’s 
character. There were many to mark and condemn i\\Q faults. 
but none to perceive their cani<e. And when he absconded 
from his apprenticeship, it did but bring conviction as to his 
determined depravity. Who may tell the agony in those 
two humble English homes, when the post brought the misera- 
ble news of death to the one, and of sin and utter separation 
to the other? They had not even the poor comfort of know- 
ing the cause of their son’s change ; their own, bold, free, 
happy, loving Harry, — how could his parents associate him 
with sin? — or Fanny, the healthy, rosy, graceful Fanny, with 
suffering and death? And what caused these fearful evils, 
amongst which our tale is but one amongst ten thousand ? 
Lucy Neville buried her face in her hands as she sat by the 
lowly pallet, where lay the faded form whence life had only 
half an- hour before departed, and thanked God that the 
temptation had been indeed resisted, and that she had not 
made one at Lady Gresham’s fete. It had not, indeed, been 
the primary or even the secondary cause. It did but strike 
the last blow and shiver to atoms the last lingering dream of 
hope and joy which, despite of oppression, misery, despair, 
loill rest invisibly in the youthful heart, till driven thence by 
death. 

•‘Lucy!” exclaimed Lord Valery that same day, stopping 
the carriage unexpectedly as it was about to drive off from 
that part of St. James’s where it usually waited for her (she 
shrunk from the notice which a nobleman’s carriage, seen in 
such localities as Mrs. Miller s, would inevitably produce), — 
“ Lucy, an old friend wishes to recall himself to your memory ; 
will you give him a seat in your carriage, and take me on the 
box? We both pine for fresh air, and a drive in the Park 
will revive us for dinner, which, whether he will or no, I in- 
tend this gentleman to partake.” 

The words were the lightest, but the tone which spoko 
them betrayed the truth at once. It was Herbert Gresham 
by his side. Herbert Gresham, whose earnest eyes were fixed 
onheis, with an expression in their dark depths needing no 
words to tell her that his early dream, even as her own, was 
‘inchanged — that the first action of his now unshackled will 


LADY GRESHAM'S FETE. 


305 


was to seek her, requiring no renewal of acquaintance, again 
to love and trust her. And though the suddenness of the 
meeting, the rapid transition from sorrowing sympathy to 
individual joy, did so flush and pale her cheek, that her brother 
looked at her with some alarm, there was neither hesitation 
nor idle reserve. Her hand was extended at once, and the 
nressure which clasped it was sufficient response. Whether 
they continued so silent, when Herbert did spring into the 
carriage, and took his seat by her side, indeed we know not. 
Certain it is that, had it not been for Lord Valery, the foot- 
man might have waited long enough for orders to drive 
“ home and equally certain that no day had ever seemed 
so short to Lucy, — short in its fulness of present enjoyment ; 
in its retrospect^ could it have been but one brief day ? 

“ And that poor girl is really gone ?” inquired Lord Valery, 
just as Herbert Gresham was about taking his departure, 
most reluctantly warned to do so by a neighbouring clock 
striking midnight. “ Another victim to that hateful system, 
desecrating our lovely and most noble land !” 

“ Dear Edward, hush !” interposed Lucy, gently, as her 
eye rested on her lover. 

“ Do not check him, dearest, though I prize that fond 
thought for me. I know the whole tale — that the fete wel- 
coming my return, by misdirected zeal and thoughtless folly, 
has added incalculably to the general burden, and to indivi- 
duals brought death and a life-long despair. The past, alas ! 

we cannot remedy — the future ” and his arm was fondly 

thrown round Lucy, and his lip pressed her brow — ‘‘ dearest, 
let us hope next season there will be another Lady Gresham’s 
F6te fraught with happiness for all.” 


irrap flf 

“I have no hope in loving thee, 

I only ask to love ; 

I brood upon my silent hearty 
As on its nest the dove ; 

But little have I been beloved— 

Sad, silent, and alone ; 

And yet I feel, in loving thee. 

The wide world is my own. 

^lline is the name I breathe to heaven — 

Thy face is on my sleep ; 

I only ask that love like this 
May pray for thee and weep.” 

L. B. Li. 

“We know not love till those we love depart.” 

L. E. L. 

'‘ Wnv will you sing that old-fashioned song, dear Annio, 
when you have so many much better suited to your voice ?’* 
expostulated Reginald de Vere, as he led the young songstress 
from her harp to a more retired seat. “ I do not like your 
throwing away so much power and sweetness on a song which, 
of all others, I hate the most.” 

“ Do not say so. Reginald. You are not usually fastidious, 
or I would say. had that sweet melody Italian words instead 
of English, you would acknowledge its beauty, and feel it 
too.” 

“Perhaps so. as it is not the melody, but the words I 
quarrel with — ^ Home, sweet home !’ What charm has home 
ever had for me ? Change the words, dear Annie, English 
or Italian, I care not, only remove all association of home, 
and I will learn to love it more.” 

“ Nay, Reginald; to banish such association would be to 
banish its greatest charm. One day you, too, may feel its 
truth.” 

“Never, never!” he answered, passionately; tbire is a 


THE UROUP OF SOTJLPTdRE. 


307 


blighting curse around me, which it were worse than folly to 
resist. I must toil on, lonely, and unblessed by one sweet 
tie of home — seeking for no love, and receiving none — isolated 
in a world ! There are many others whose destiny is the 
same. Bound by the iron chain of fate, he is but a madman 
who would seek to break it,” 

“ Destiny — fate ! I thought you had long ere this banished 
their baneful influence,” said Annie, in a tone of mild re- 
proach. 

“ From your ear, my gentle friend, because I saw you loved 
not their expression ; but not from my own heart. Yet you, 
too, believe all things to be preordained; that not a sparrow 
falls to the ground unmarked. Then, why so start at me — is 
not our creed the same ?” 

“ It cannot be, Reginald. I am not wise enough to know 
wherein the difference lies. I can only judge from effects ; 
and when they are so opposed, I fancy the cause must be so 
also. I do believe that all things are ordained, but yet I am 
no fatalist.” 

‘‘ Will you try and explain the distinction, for your words 
seem somewhat contradictory.” 

“I fear they do,” she replied, simply; “and I am over 
bold to speak on this weighty subject at all. Your creed 
appears to me to consist in this ; that before your birth, your 
path was laid down — ^your destiny fixed ; that you are, in con- 
sequence, bound in chains, enclosed in walls, from which no 
effort of your own will can enable you to escape ; that you 
must stand the bursting of the thunder-cloud — for you have 
no force or energy to seek shelter, no free will to choose — 
swayed by an irresistible impulse, and, consequently, not a 
responsible being. Such seems to me the creed of a. fatalist.” 

“And you are right. Now, then, for yours ; less difficult, 
I should imagine, to explain, than that in which you have no 
interest.” 

“ I differ from you, Reginald. It is comparatively easy 
to define the subject of a passing thought or an hour’s study ; 
but that which we feel, feel to our inmost soul, is not so easily 
clothed in words. I believe that an eye of love is ever watch- 
ing over me — a guiding arm is ever round me ; that nothing 
can happen to me, unless willed for my good by my Father in 
heaven ; but I do not believe my lot in life marked out before 
I saw the light. Such a creed at once changes the law of lovo 
into a dark and iron-bound necessity, from which my whole 
14 


808 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


soul revolts. Where would be the comfort of prayer in such 
a case — the blessedness of pouring forth one’s whole soul in 
the hour of affliction ? for how could prayer avail us were our 
lot marked out ?” 

“ And do you think prayer ever does ? Do you believe 
that you are answered 

“ I do. indeed, dear Reginald ; not always as our own will 
would dictate, but as a loving Father knows it best. I was 
not answered as my heart implored when my only parent was 
taken from me ; but I was answered in the strt ngth that was 
granted me to feel that he was happy, and God’s will kinder 
and better than my own. I am not here because it is my 
destiny, but because it is better for me than the calm and 
quiet life I have hitherto enjoyed.” 

“Your creed is indeed that of a gentle, loving woman, 
Annie,” said her companion, more playfully ; but he smiled 
not, for he knew how chillingly a smile will fall on young en- 
thusiasm. “ But it is too visionary, too ethereal, for cold- 
hearted man ; perhaps not for some, but for me there are no 
such dreams. My heart was once full of hope and faith, and 
all things bright, and fond, and beautiful ; but now, crushed, 
blighted, trampled on, how may it dream again ? But this is 
folly,” and with a strong effort he subdued emotion, and spoke 
more calmly. “ Let us talk of something else. You alluded 
but now to your change of life, and I thought, sadly. Are 
you not happy ?” 

“ I shall be in time, Reginald,” answered Annie, on whose 
fair sweet face a shade had flitted at her companion’s bitter 
words. “ All are kind to me. My mother was Lord Enner- 
dale’s favourite niece, and he loves me for her sake, and so 
pets me that I cannot but love him most dearly.” 

“ And Lady Emily ?” 

“ I shall learn to love as soon as she will let me. I fancy 
she thinks me but a simple romantic girl, and I have not 
courage to undeceive her — that I can love and reverence 
other things beside poetry; but it is the change of circum- 
stances that sometimes makes me sad. Clair Abbey is so fai 
removed from Luscombe Cottage, that time has not yet recon- 
ciled me to the great change.” 

‘‘ Time is slow in effecting changes in you, Annie; yet ero 
we meet again, trust me, you will have learned to love Clair 
Abbey, or changed it for another home as high in sounding 
^nd yet more d^ar.” 


fHE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


309 


“ Changed it ere we meet again ! What can you mean. 
Reginald V' said Annie, startled' yet more by his tone than by 
his words, but she was not answered ; for Reginald turned 
away directly he had spoken, his attention called by Lord 
Ennerdale ; and another quadrille being formed, her hand 
was claimed, and she was led oflf almost unconsciously — so 
stiangely was she preoccupied — to join it. 

There had been nothing in the quiet yet earnest conversa- 
tion of Reginald de Vere and Annie Grey to cause remark 
amongst the light-hearted group who ^eie that night assem- 
bled in Lord Ennerdale’s hospitable halls. They had been 
intimate from childhood, and as Annie was almost a stranger^ 
to all present, and merely regarded as a simple country girl 
hardly emerged from childhood, no one was surprised that she 
should prefer Reginald’s Society ; though there were some 
young men who, attracted by the timid yet vintelligent style 
of her beauty, half envied De Vere the privileges of intimacy 
which he so evidently enjoyed. Annie’s place seemed not 
amidst the followers of fashion ; the long, rich, chestnut hair 
-owned no law but that of nature, and flowed at will from her 
pale, high brow over a neck and shoulders, whose exquisite 
form and whiteness were displayed to advantage by the simple 
fashion of her plain black dress ; tne eye so “darkly, deeply, 
beautifully blue,” the fair soft cheek ever varying in colour, 
revealed every thought and feeling that stirred within. The 
wmrld’s lesson of concealment and reserve she had not yet 
learned, for living in perfect retirement with a kind and judi- 
cious father, of whom she was the idol, her enthusiasm had 
been regulated not chilled, and every high and poetic sentiment 
raised up to and purified in the only rest for such minds — the 
religion of the Bible and of Nature. Her life had passed in 
a small cottage on the banks of Windermere, diversified only 
by occasional visits to an old relation in Scotland ; where, in 
fact, the first six months of her mourning had been passed. 
And there, had it not been for one cogent reason, she would 
have preferred remaining, as more congenial to her taste and 
feelings, than the form and grandeur which she imagined must 
surround the dwelling of an earl. 

Lord Ennerdale and his family had often sought to draw 
Sir Edward Grey from his seclusion, anxious to notice his 
child : but fearing to disturb Annie’s tran(juil happiness by 
an introduction to a mode of life and pleasures which her very 
limited fortune must prohibit her enjoying, he had invariably 


310 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


declined these solicitations. Yet when Lord Ennerdale, not' 
withstanding his age and infirmities, made a rapid jomnej 
from Imndon to Luscombe Cottage, purposely to soothe his 
dying hours by the assurance that his Annie was amply, even 
richly provided for, and therefore there could be no objection 
to her making Clair Abbey her future home, Sir Edward 
placed his weeping child in the arras of her aged uncle, and 
died with a prayer for both upon his lips. 

But much as Annie loved and venerated her father, it was 
scarcely so much his last wish as the restlessness of her own 
heart, which, even while she preferred the simple m )de of 
living at Kelmuir, yet reconciled her to a residence at Clair 
Abbey. She was restless because her quondam playmate and 
chosen friend, Reginald de Vere, was far away in his own 
most wretched home, with none to sing or smile him into peace, 
or cautiously and gently argue away his fits of morbid sensi- 
tiveness or overwhelming gloom. That Lord Ennerdale not 
only sympathised in the young man’s causes of depression, 
but loved his better qualities, admired his talents, and regret- 
ted his failings, was sufficient to excite the warm affections of 
his great-niece towards him. No spell is so powerful in open- 
ing the heart as sympathy, with regard to the character of 
those we love. 

Clair Abbey’s great attraction, then, to Annie Grey was, 
that there she should constantly see Reginald ; his concluding 
words, therefore, had both startled and pained her ; but she 
vainly waited for their solution. She looked earnestly for 
Reginald to return to her ; but he was constantly engaged in 
apparently earnest conversation with one or another of Lord 
Ennerdale’s guests. She was too guileless to believe he 
shunned her merely becaust he failed in courage to tell her 
more. 

The evening closed at length ; and passing along the cor- 
ridor leading from the library to the stairs, a well-known step 
suddenly sounded behind her, and the voice of Reginald de 
Verc called her by name. 

‘‘ I thought you intended to retire without even wishing 
me good night,” she said, playfully, her spirit rallying with 
his appearance. “ What do you mean, sir, % such treatment 1 
Be better behaved to-morrow, and 1 will be merciful and for- 
give.” 

‘‘You must forgive me tonight, dearest Annie; for to- 
morrow will see me many miles on the road to Portsmouth, 
thence, speedily to embark for Spain.” 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


311 


“ Portsmouth — Spain !” repeated the bewildered girl ; and 
her hand so trembled, that the lamp she held dropped from 
it, and was instantly extinguished. 

“ Yes, Annie, to Spain !” he answered, struggling for calm- 
ness. “ I am of age now ; poor, but not so utterly dependent 
as I have been. My father’s house I will never enter more. 
You start, Annie, but do not — do not condemn me. Judge 
me by no reasoning but that of your own kind, gentle heart. 
I can bear no more than that which I have borne. Boyhood 
must submit to a parent’s t3'ranny ; but manhood owns no such 
law. You know how I would have loved my father, and how 
he has spurned me. Still I lingered, vainly striving to elicit 
one softer feeling, hoping — idiot that I was — that he would 
yet love me. But the dream is over ! He drew the reins 
still tighter, and so snapped them ; there is a measure to en- 
durance even in a son. Bo not weep thus, Annie,” he continued, 
conquering his own emotion to soothe hers, and passing his 
arm round her, as he had so often done in earlier years, when, 
as a brother, he had soothed her griefs and shared her joj^s. 
“ I will not burden you with the final cause of my present 
resolution. I have neither means nor influence to tread the 
path to which my inmost soul aspires ; and to toil for linger- 
ing years behind a merchant’s desk or tradesman’s counter my 
spirit will not bear. I have obtained a commission amongst 
the brave fellows now about to join General Mina in his gal- 
lant defence of the young queen ; and with him these restless 
yearnings may be stilled in the activity of martial service, or 
the quiet of the grave. And who will mourn for me?” he 
continued, rapidly and bitterly ; “ who, in the wide world, will 
think of me, or shed one tear for me, save thine own sweet 
self? Oh, Annie, speak to me ! Tell me you will think of 
me sometimes. I know there will be. many, very many, to 
supply my place to you ; but, oh, who ^yill ever be to me as 
you have been ?” 

“ And yet you have decided on this plan, endured more 
than ever, and told me not a word. Beginald, was this 
kind ?” she said, struggling with the tears that nearly suffo- 
cated her. 

‘•You were in grief already, Annie ; how might I ask 
your sympathy in mine ? I know it never was refused rne. J 
know it would not be, even in your own sorrow ; but oh. 
Annie, I felt if I waited to look on you again, I should fail 
in courage to leave England. Yet why should .T linger? 


312 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


Changed as your prospects are. loved as you will be by those 
BO much more deserving, what could I be to you?” 

“ Reginald !” murmured poor Annie, wholly unconscious of 
the nature of her own feelings, yet unable to utter another word. 

“ I know you will not forget me Annie, dearest Annie, 
your nature is too good, too kind, too truthful for such change ; 
but, fated as I am, how dare I ask for, hope for more than a 
sister’s love? Say you will sometimes think of me, love me 
as — as a brother, Annie, darling ! and life will not be so wholly 
desolate.” 

Her reply was almost inarticulate, and passionate words 
rose to Reginald’s lips, but they were not spoken. He led 
her to the door of her apartment without another word, wrung 
both her hands in his, bade “ God bless her !” and was gone. 
Annie stood for a few minutes as if stunned ; mechanically 
she loosed the wreath of white rosebuds from her hair, the 
fastening of her dress, which seemed to stifle her very breath, 
and then she sunk on her knees beside the bed, and the hot 
tears gushed forth ; and long, long she wept, as that young 
guileless girl had never wept before. 

Reginald De Vere was the youngest son of a private gen- 
tleman of moderate fortune, residing in a populous city in the 
north of Yorkshire. It is not necessary to dilate on feelings 
which Reginald’s own words but too painfully portrayed ; the 
“ iron rule” of tyranny is best described in the effect which it 
produces. The Calvinistic principles of the elder De Vere 
found no softening of their natural austerity in the acidity 
and moroseness of his temper ; the evil had been increased by 
his union with a young Spaniard — lively, frivolous, and a Pto- 
man Catholic. How this marriage had ever come about, no- 
body succeeded in discovering. Strange unions there are, but 
seldom between such antipodes in character and feeling as 
were Mr. and Mrs. De Vere. Their large family grew up 
amidst all the evils of domestic dissension, and its sub^sequent 
misery — a father’s unjustifiable tyranny, and a mother’s as 
blamable weakness. Basil De Vere sought to instil his pecu- 
liarly stern doctrines in the minds of his children ; his wife 
prayed, in their hearing, that they might be saved from such 
cold, comfortless belief ; they shrunk from the one. and learned 
no religion from the other. To shield them from the father’s 
tyranny, the mother taught them deceit, lavished on them 
weak indulgences, which were to be forfeited if ever revealed. 
Ever witnessing and suffering the effects of dissension, what 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


313 


aSectiou, what harmony could exist between themselves? The 
ill efifcicts of this training were more discernible in some of 
their matured characters than in others ; some pursued an 
honest course, as soon as their departure from their father’s 
house permitted the influence of their better qualities, but these 
were mostly dwelling in foreign lands ; some had married with, 
scrmo without his consent; and in his old age Basil Be Vere 
f)und himself master of a deserted hearth, with none of his 
once blooming family beside him but one, and that one was 
Beginald. The weak indulgence of his mother had never 
Bof toned for Reginald the tyranny of his father. She died in 
giving him birth, and he had to battle through his unhappy 
childhood alone. Shrinking almost in agony from his father’s 
voice, yearning, with all the clinging confldence of childhood, 
for love, but finding none, he turned in loathing from the con- 
tinued scenes of discord which characterised his home. He 
spurned with contemptuous indignation offers of indulgence 
and concealment, to act as he saw others do, and thus con- 
stantly drew down upon himself the enmity of his more wily 
brothers and sisters. He shrunk, in consequence, more and 
more within himself, striving to keep peace with his father, 
but in vain ; for Be Vere often raged at his children without 
knowing wherefore, and the calm, dignified bearing of his 
youngest son would chafe him into greater fury than palpable 
offence. But there were seeds of virtue, aye, of the nobility 
of genius,” in the disposition of Reginald, that bloomed and 
flourished despite the unhealthy soil and blighting atmosphere 
in which he moved ; perhaps the kindly notice of Sir Edward 
Grey assisted their development. The pale, silent, suffering 
boy liad appealed irresistibly to his kind heart, and for Regi- 
nald’s sake he condescended to make acquaintance with his 
father 

As long as they remained in Yorkshire, Sir Edward per- 
mitted Reginald to share much of the instruction which he 
himself bestowed upon his Annie ; a kindness so delicately 
and feelingly bestowed, that Reginald by slow degrees per- 
mitted his whole character to display itself to Sir Edward, 
and allowed himself to feel that, with so kind a friend and so 
sweet a companion, he was not utterly alone. Even when Sir 
Edward removed to Windermere their intercourse continued ; 
for there was ever a room prepared and a warm welcome for 
Reginald, who turned to that cottage as a very Eden of peace 
and love. 


B14 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE 


As Reginald increased in years, felt more fully his own 
powers, and through Sir Edward’s friendly introductions asso- 
ciated with other families, his morbid feelings did not, as the 
baronet had fondly hoped, decrease, but rather strengthened, 
in the supposition that his fate alone was desolate. He saw 
happy homes and kindly hearts ; no exertion, no effort, no 
sacrifice could make such his, and he believed an iron chain 
of fate was round him, dooming him to misery. The kindness 
of Sir Edward, of Lord Ennerdale, and others, only deepened 
the vain, wild yearnings for home affections — the peace, the 
confidence of home. A peculiarly fine organization of mind, 
an acute perception of character caused him to shrink with 
pain from general notice. The talented and gifted he admired 
at a distance, feeling intuitively that such would be his chosen 
friends ; yet, from a sense of inferiority, refusing to come for- 
ward and permit his fine talents to be known ; at the same 
time shrinking from the common herd, convinced that amongst 
them he shnuld meet with neither sympathy nor appreciation. 
A happy home would have been all in all for Reginald ; there 
the incipient stirrings of genius would have been fostered into 
bloom, and the morbid feelings too often their accompaniment 
regulated into peace. 

The death of Sir Edward Grey and the future destination 
of his daughter were, however, the final cause of his determi- 
nation to leave England. He knew it not himself ; and if a 
light did flash upon the darkness, it only deepened the gloom 
around him, by the conviction that his doom was ever to love 
alone. More and more earnestly he sought to soften his 
father’s temper, even to conquer his own repugnance to the 
path of life his parent might assign him ; but in vain. To 
enumerate all the petty miseries this struggle cost him would 
be impossible. The mind rises purified and spiritualized from 
great sorrows ; but there is no relief from the trial of an un- 
happy home, no cure for the wounds of words. If domestic 
love and peace be ours, we can go forth with a firm heart and 
serene mind to meet the trials of the world ; alas ! alas ! for 
those who have no such haven, no such stay ! 

Never did Reginald De Vere make a greater mistake than 
in the supposition that a military life would bring him the 
happiness for which his parched soul so thirsted. He could 
not associate the favourite pastime of his childhood, carving 
in wood, stone, or whatever material came first to hand, with 
the feverish yearning for exertion and excitement, which pos- 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


315 


uessed his whole being. He could not feel that the one sprung 
from the other, or rather that the power which urged the 
former was secretly working in his mind, and causing an utter 
distaste for all mechanical employment. He was too unhappy 
to examine the source of his restlessness, and knew no one 
who could explain it for him. 

Lord Ennerdale and his sons were all men of worth and 
talent, and firm encouragers of art and literature : but not 
themselves children of genius, they failed in the subtle pene- 
tration which could discover its embryo existence. Had Sir 
Edward lived he would have seen further ; but still all his 
friends had dissuaded Reginald from entering on a military 
career, but he was firm ; and in less than a week after his 
agitated parting with Annie, a fair wind was rapidly bearing 
him to the shores of Spain. 

Days and weeks passed, and Annie Grey sought with per- 
severing effort to regain her former calm and happy temper- 
ament ; and she succeeded so far as to conceal from her rela- 
tives the secret of her heart. The agony of that parting 
moment had transformed her, as by some incomprehensible 
spell, from the child to the woman ; and so sudden had been 
the transition, that she felt for days a stranger to herself. 
Reginald had always been dear to her, but she knew not, 
imagined not how dear, until that never-to-be-forgotten even- 
ing ; his words returned to her again and again, and .sad, 
desponding as they were, she would not have lost one of them. 
She who had been so constantly active, flitting like a spirit 
from one favourite employment to another, now seemed to 
live but on one feeling ; but her mind was too well regulated 
to permit its unrestrained indulgence. Young as she was, 
dependent on herself alone for guidance in this new and ab- 
sorbing state of being, thrown in quite a new position for luxury 
^d wealth, as a cherished member of her uncle’s family, yet 
"ner character, instead of deteriorating, matured, uniting all 
the outward playfulness of the child with the inward graces 
of the woman. 

Lord Ennerdale’s domestic circle formed a happy contrast 
to that of the ascetic Basil De Vere. His children were all 
married except his eldest son, Lord St. Clair, and eldest 
daughter. Lady Emily ; but the ties of family had never been 
brok^en, and happy youth and blooming childhood were almost 
always round the earl. With all these Annie was speedily % 
favourite ; and easily susceptible of kindness and aftection. 
Clair Abbey soon became endeared to her as home. 


S16 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE 


By a strange contradiction, Annie’s interest and affection 
were, however, excited the strongest towards the only iiieinber 
of Lord Ennerdale’s family who retained reserve towards lier. 
What there was in Lady Emily St. Clair to attract a young 
and lively girl, Annie herself might have found it difficult to 
define; for not only her appearance, but her manners were* 
against her. Stiff, cold, even severe, she usually appeared ; 
and when she would at times relax, and seem about to enter 
with warmth and kindness into Annie’s studies or pursuits, 
she would suddenly relapse into coldness and reserve. Some- 
times, when eagerly conversing with Lord St. Clair, on the 
exquisite beauty of nature, or of some favourite poem, when 
the spirit of poetry breathed alike from her eyes and from her 
lips, Annie would catch the eye of Lady Emily fixed upon 
her sadly and pityingly ; or if she smiled, the smile was pecu- 
liar, it might be even satirical ; yet she was never satirical in 
words, nor did it seem in character — too feelingly alive to the 
dictates of kindness ever willingly to inflict a wound. To dis- 
cover her real character was difficult ; Annie judged more by 
her habits than her words. Lady Emily never said that her 
love of flowers amounted to a passion, that to have them around 
her in their freshness, to seek them alike from the garden and 
the wild, to collect, dry, and arrange them in such tasteful 
groups and such brilliancy of colouring, that the choicest 
paintings looked dim beside them, was her favourite pleasure, 
but Annie was ever ready with some newly discovered plant, 
or the moss and weed she needed — ever the first to remove 
the d3dr)g buds, and supply their place around her boudoir 
with the freshest and fairest she could select. Lady Emily 
never spoke of poetry, never acknowledged that she could either 
admire or enter into it ; but there were extracts in her writing, 
attached sometimes to drawings, sometimes to her books of 
flowers, that betrayed such a refinement of taste, and acute 
perception of the pure, the beautiful, and the spiritual, in nature 
and in man, that Annie suspected she was herself a poet ; but 
yet how could she reconcile the unimpassioned coldness of her 
usual mood with the light and life of poetry? Yet though 
fairly puzzled, Annie so judiciously assisted her researches, 
that Lady Emily often wondered how a mark could come so 
exactly in the place she wished, when the thought, for whoso 
echo she looked, had been breathed to none ; but even had 
these attentions escaped her notice, it must indeed have been 
an icy heart to withstand the sweetness of Annie’s manner ' 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


317 


whcu over her cousin’s mood was irritable, her temper somewhat 
rulBed, there seemed a magic around Annie not only to beat 
with irritation, but to reconcile the subject of that irritation 
to herself and all around her ; and when so languid and weak 
as really to be ill, though she would never allow it, who so 
active as Annie to prevent all annoyance to the invalid, or 
interfere with the only pursuit she could enjoy? Yet no show 
of affection acknowledged these attentions : but by very slow 
degrees the Miss Grey changed into Anne, and finally into 
the pretty denomination by which she was always addressed . 
and the smile and tone with which she spoke to her, satisfied 
the orphan that she had not worked in vain. 

Even if Annie’s conduct had failed to rivet the notice of 
Lady Emily, it had gained for her the interest and sincere 
affection of another. Lord St. Clair was devotedly attached 
to his sister, and all who had the good sense to appreciate her 
were sure to obtain his esteem ; then in the prime of life, he 
foresaw no danger in his intimate association with and admi- 
ration of his young cousin, a girl but just seventeen ; and it 
was a pleasure to him to draw her out, and repay by every 
kindness on his part her attention to his sister. A disappoint- 
ment when very young had caused him to remain single. “ I 
do not say I shall never marry,” he often said, in answer to 
his father’s solicitations on the subject ; “ for then I should 
consider myself. bound not to do so, however my heart might 
dictate ; but it is unlikely.” 

Annie Grey had not, however, been domiciled many months 
in Clair Abbey, before Lord St. Clair’s sentiments on this 
subject underwent some change. 

From the time of Reginald’s departure the public jour- 
nals became suddenly endowed with an interest to Annie, 
equal to that of the most ardent politician. The disturbed 
state of Spain, the constant marchings and counter-marchings 
of General Mina’s army, prevented any regular communication 
from Reginald ; once or twice she had heard from him direct, 
and treasured indeed were those letters, honourably as the 
young man kept to his resolution, never by one word to draw 
Annie into an engagement, or even an avowal that she return- 
ed his love. In the papers she often read his name amongst 
the bravest and most daring of the British soldiers. One an- 
endote, officially reported and communicated to Lord Ennerdale, 
afforded her still dearer food for fancy. The service in which 
he was engaged was exposed to all the horrors of civil war- 


318 


THE GROUP OP SCULPTURE. 


fare ; slaughter and desolation followed in the train of both 
armies. Young De Vere, at the head of a picked band, had 
thrown himself into the very midst of a determined on 

saving the unoffending women and children, and aged peasants 
of the opposing party, all of whom were about to be sacrificed 
to the misguided rage of the royal troops ; the village was in 
flames, and the peasants, neutral before, swore to be avenged. 
The exertions of the young Englishman, however, worked on 
both parties ; he calmed the excited spirits of his own men and 
promised protection and safety to the oppressed. One group 
particularly attracted him ; a young mother, clasping an infa.jt 
tightly to her breast, and two fine boys, twining their arms 
around her, as to protect her with their own lives. Reginald 
did not know that it was her infant he had saved from a brutal 
death, but his look was arrested by the intense feeling glisten- 
ing in her large dark eyes, and by the impotent passion of her 
eldest boy, who, clenching a huge stick, vowed he would join 
his father, who was a Cariist soldier, and revenge the insults 
offered to his mother. De V ere jestingly laid his hand on the 
stripling’s shoulder, declaring he was a young rebel and his 
prisoner. The agonized scream of the poor mother changing 
on the instant into the wildest accents of gratitude, as she re- 
cognised in Reginald her babe’s preserver, and to the earnest 
supplication that he would send them on in safety, removed all 
feelings of mere jest. Reginald soothed her fears, and select- 
ing a guard of his own countrymen, on whom he could depend, 
sent her and her children under their care to the outposts of 
the Cariist camp. General Mina smiled sadly when this an- 
ecdote was told him. “ The age of chivalry is over, my young 
friend,” he said, mournfully. Your act was kind and gener- 
ous, but I fear of little service. The Carlists are not likely to 
check their career of devastating warfare because we have 
spared one insignificant village ; nor will you have any demand 
upon their favour should you unfortunately fall into their 
hands.” 

“ Chivalry and its romance may be over,” thought Annie, 
as again and again her mind reverted to its one fond theme. 

But my father once told me ‘ a deed can never die and, 
even if indeed it were to do no good, surely his motives will 
meet with the appreciation and admiration they deserve ; 
there must be some among the good and noble to do him 
justice.” 

How the young heart revels in every proof, however triflings 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


319 


of the worth of him it loves, The restlessness of a scarcely 
acknowledged passion merged into a species of glowing hap- 
piness, the lasis of which Annie might have found it difficult 
to define. In its indulgence she forgot the distance between 
them, the darkening aspect of his future, the despondency 
breathing in his last farewell — forgot all but the passionate 
words, • Who will be to me as you have been?” And whal 
will so elevate the character and purify the heart, and shed 
such sweet rosy flowers over every thought, and act, and feel- 
ing, as the first fresh feelings of all-hoping, ail-believing love ! 
Annie’s beauty, matured beneath the magic of such dreams, 
excited universal admiration : but the young girl knew it not. 

“No breakfast for loiterers!” exclaimed Lord St. Clair, 
playfully holding up his hands, as Annie sprang through an 
open French window into the breakfast-room one lovely sum- 
mer morning, her cottage bonnet thrown back, her luxuriant 
hair somewhat disordered, her cheek and eye bright with 
health and animation, and laughing gaily at Lord St. Clair’s 
threat. 

“ Here has Emily been looking starch and prim for the 
last half-hour, thinking unutterable things of the folly and 
romance which can be the only reason of young ladies’ early 
wanderings in the lonely districts about Keswick Lake. Ah, 
you little fox, prepared with a bribe to ward off the weight of 
her displeasure,” he said, as Annie laid the fruit of her re- 
searches, a rare and exquisite plant, on the table by her cou- 
sin, and Lady Emily half smiled. 

“ And there is my father in a complete fever, fearing that 
his blodming little niece had been carried off, or eaten up by 
one of the wild men o'* monsters of the mountains, and threat- 
ening to search for her himself, directly after breakfast.” 

‘* Thank you, my dear, kind uncle,” replied Annie gaily, 
bending over Lord Ennerdale to kiss his forehead. “ Never 
be anxious about me. I have suffered no further inconveni- 
ence than extreme hunger, which I satisfied at Nanny’s cot- 
tage, by a slice of her brown bread and a cup of warm milk. 
No romance in that, Lord St. Clair, at least.” 

“ A fortunate occurrence for you, as it may save you from 
a lecture on the impropriety of indulging love-lorn dreams in 
solitude. Why, Annie, you are actually blushing; if it were 
not an utter impossibility for romantic young ladies to fee] 
hungry, I should say your very looks pleaded guilty. Look 
at her; Emily — you had better begin.” 


320 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


“No, I thank you, Henry; I never give lectures, even 
vhen df served, in public,” was his sister’s quiet reply. 

“Well, the ofi'ence brings with it its own punishment, for 
bcie coiim the contents of the postman’s bag, and so a truce 
to our sage converse ; and you, Miss Annie, must eat your 
breakfast in meditative silence.” 

“ Or in perusing what she likes better. Here, my little 
politician ; your eyes are pleading, though your lips are silent,’’ 
said Lord Ennerdale, gaily throwing to her a packet of news- 
papers without opening them. 

” You are much too young to be a politician ; besides, I 
hate women to dabble in politics, so give me a better reason 
for being the first reader of all the papers, or you shall not 
have them,” interposed Lord St. Clair, keeping firm hold of 
the packet, which he bad caught. 

“On my honour, I never read a w'ord of politics” replied 
Annie, half playfully, half eagerly, but blushing deeply as she 
met Lord St. Clair’s penetrative glancni. He relinquished 
them with a half sigh, and bent over his despatches. Silence 
ensued for several minutes, each seemingly engrossed with hia 
occupation. Lady Emily was the first to move, and after care- 
fully sorting and arranging the fiowers Annie had brought her, 
was about to leave the room. 

Annie, my dear child! what is the matter?” she exclaim- 
ed, in a tone which electrified her father and brother, so ut- 
terly was it unlike her usually measured accents ; and startled 
out of all stiffness and dignity, she was at the poor girl’s side 
in an instant. Annie’s cheek, lips, and brow were cold and 
colourless as marble, and there was such rigid agony imprint- 
ed on every feature, that Lady Emily well-nigh shuddered as 
she gazed. “Speak to me, Annie, love I What is it? Try 
and speak, dearest ; do not look at me with such a gaze.” she 
continued, as Annie slowly raised her eyes, which were blood- 
shot and distended, and fixed them on her face ; she evidently 
tried to speak, but only a gasping cry escaped, and that ter- 
rible agony was lost for a time in an unconsciousness so deep 
that it almost seemed of death. 

Lord St. Clair stood paralyzed, but then he snatched up 
the fatal paper, and one glance sufficed to tell him all. all that 
he had suspected, all that for his own happiness he had feared ; 
Imt ha could only think of Annie then, and perceiving how 
ineffectual were all the usual efforts to restore animatioi , he 
threw himself on horseback, and never rested till he bad 


THE GROUP OP SCULPTURE, 


321 


found and dragged back with him the medical attendant of 
the family, whose skill was finally successful. Annie woke 
from that blessed relief of insensibility to a consciousness of 
such fearful suffering, that as she lay in the perfect stillness 
enjoined b}'^ the ph^'^sician, she felt as if her brain must reel, 
and fail beneath it. It was not alone the death of him she 
loved, that the idol of her young affections was lost to her 
for ever, but it was the horrid nature of his fate which had so 
anpalL^d her. In the gallant defence of a royal fort he had 
been left almost alone, all his companions falling around him ; 
severely wounded, and overpowered by numbers, he was taken 
by the Carlists, dragged to their camp, and twenty-four hours 
afterwards shot, with other ill-fated men, literally murdered 
in cold blood. Three times Annie’s eyes had glared on the 
paragraph, reading again and again the list of the unfortunate 
men who had thus perished, as if Reginald’s name could not 
be amongst them ; alas ! it was there pre-eminent, from the 
courage, the youth, and the ofiicial rank of the bearer. And 
in that dreadful stillness the whole scene rose before her, 
vivid as reality — ghastly figures fiitted before her ; and then 
she saw Reginald as they parted ; and then full of life and 
excitement in the field ; and then covered with blond and 
wounds. She seemed to see him bound and kneeling for the 
fatal stroke, and the shot rung in her ears, clear, sharp, and 
strangely loud, till she could have shrieked from the bewilder- 
ing agony ; she tried to banish the vision, to escape its influ- 
ence, but it gained strength, and force, and colouring, and be- 
fore midnight Lady Emily watched in grief and awe beside 
the couch where her young cousin lay, and raved in the fear- 
ful delirium of a brain fever. 

Many weeks elapsed ere Annie could again take her place 
amongst her family ; alternate fever and exhaustion had so 
prostrated her that her life was more than once despaired of. 
Had she been aware who it was so constantly and gently 
tending her, teaching her voice to forget its coldness, her 
manner its reserve, to soothe and comfort those hours of 
agony, she would have felt that some simple “deeds indeed 
could never die and that to her own sweetness of temper, 
and forbearing and active kindness, she owed the blessings of 
a sympathy and tenderness almost equalling a mother’s. Rut 
II was long before she was conscious of any thing, or even 
ckpable of rousing herself from the lethargic stupor which still 
lingered even when sense and strength returned. That she 


322 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


sought earuestly to appear the same as usual — to evince hoTf 
gratefully she felt the kindness lavished on her — tu return to 
her employments, was very evident ; but it seemed as if bodi 
ly weakness prevented all mental exertion. She shrunk in 
anguish from the thought that she had betrayed her love, 
though by neither word nor hint did her companions ever 
allude to the immediate occasion of her illness. 

“Would she but shed tears — but speak her grief,” ex- 
claimed Lord St. Clair to his sister, one day, after vainly en- 
deavouring to excite a smile, “ she would suffer less then ; but 
she has never wept since ; and before, the most trifling emo» 
tion, even of pleasure, would draw tears. Could you but draw 
forth her confidence — but make her weep. Is there no possi- 
ble way 

“ I fear none : she shrinks from the slightest approach to the 
subject. I feel as if I dared not speak poor Reginald’s name.’' 

Chance, however, did that for which even Lady Emily’s 
courage failed. Annie was reclining, one morning, in a favour- 
ite boudoir, her eyes languidly wandering over the beautiful 
landscape, which stretched from the window. When last she 
had noticed it, the trees were bending beneath the weight of 
their glorious summer dress, and the gayest and brightest 
flowers were flinging their lavish beauties on the banks of the 
small but picturesque lake. The scene was still lovely, but it 
had changed ; the trees which still retained foliage were all in 
the sere and yellow leaf,” the ground was strewed with fallen 
leaves, the flowers were all gone, and Nature herself seemed 
emblematical of the change in Annie’s heart. Lady Emily 
watched her some time in silence, and then gently drew her 
attention to some beautiful groups of flowers which she had 
lately arranged. Annie turned from the window with a heavy 
sigh, and bent over the flowers ; while Lady Emily continued 
her employments without further notice. She forgot that 
amongst those groups there was the plant, to find which Annie 
had rambled over hill and dale that fatal morning. From its 
extreme rarity and beauty she had placed it alone upon the 
page : and as Annie gazed upon it, a rush of feeling of the 
bright, sweet memories which had thronged her mind during 
that solitary ramble came back upon her — the dreams of hope, 
and joy, and love — with the force, the intensity of actual 
presence ; as if they might still be realized, and the interven- 
ing time had been but a dark and troubled blank. She pushed 
the flower from her. and her head sunk on her clasped hauda 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


823 


“ My poor child, I forgot that flower was amongst them 
exclaimed Lady Emily, in a tone at once of such self-reproach 
and earnest sympathy, that Annie, with an uncontrollable im 
pulse, suddenly sprung up, and folding her arms round her 
neck, burst into a passion of tears. All her cousin’s previous 
kindness she had attributed to pity for bodily suflPering. 
That she could sympathize in her mental affliction, she had 
fancied — as the young are too prone to do of the colder and 
more experienced — was impossible ; but the tone, the allusion 
to that little flower, betrayed that she, too, could believe in 
and understand the association of the material with the im- 
material world ; and Annie now wept upon her bosom, in the 
consoling consciousness that, cold as that heart seemed, it 
could yet feel and weep for her. 

Lady Emily trembled ; for the deep emotion she leheld 
recalled passages of equal suffering in her own life, which she 
had thought buried and at rest for ever. She trembled, lest in 
this appeal to her inmost soul her long striven-for calmness 
should fail, and her weakness should increase rather than 
soothe Annie’s anguish. Her hand shook, and her lip so 
quivered, that it was some minutes ere she could speak. We 
need not linger on the words which folloT^ed. The ice, which 
had seemed to close round Annie’s heart, dissolved — Regi- 
nald’s name was spoken — the fond secret of her life revealed ; 
and from that day she found more strength to struggle with 
depression — to leave no effort untried to regain serenity, and 
conquer that worst foe to happiness, indifference, which the 
human heart contains. Once convinced, by the representa- 
tions of affection and experience, that it was her duty actively 
to do^ as well as passively to endure — to prove her resignation 
to the blow, which though heavy, was still dealt by a Father’s 
hand, she did not fail. A yet more earnest desire to seek tlio 
happiness of others, and complete disregard of self — a calm 
and still serenity of word and look, were now her outward 
characteristics; while, within, though her spirit had gained 
new strength in its upward flight — new clinging love for that 
world where all is peace, the thought of the departed yet re- 
mained, gaining, it seemed, increase of power with every pass- 
ing month. It had lost its absorbing anguish ; but not its 
memories. Too truly did she feel, with that sweet chroniclei 
of woman’s heart — 


824 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


“TVe dream not of Love’s mighty 
Till Death has robed, with soft and solemn light, 

Tlie image we enshrine. Before that hour 
We have but glimpses of the overmastering power 
Within us laid.” 

There were times when the thought would come, and so 
viridly she could scarcely believe it only a thought, that 
Reginald might yet live, the public records be deceivers, l^ut 
Lady Emily’s assurances that her father and brothers had 
Hiade every inquiry, but that all the information obtained 
only confirmed the statement, proved the utter fallacy of the 
dream. 


11 . 

“Ah ! let the heart that worships thee 
By ev’ry ehauge be proved.” 

L. B. L 

“I could forgive the miserable horn’s 
His falsehood, and his only, taught my heart \ 

But 1 can not forgive that for his sake 
Hy faith in good is shaken, and my hopes 
Are pale and cold, for tliey have looked on death. 

Why should I love him? he no longer is 
That which 1 loved.” 

■ L. K L. 

“Thou li vest! thou li vest! 

I knew thou couldst not die !” 

De Chatillon — Mrs. Hemans. 


Nearly two years had elapsed since the death of Reginald 
De Vere, ere any event of sufficient importance occurred in 
Annie’s life for us to resume the thread of our narrative. A 
shock like that, and on such a disposition, could never be for- 
gotten, though time, the softener of all ills, had restored her to 
some degree of her wonted animation, and though the elastic 
spirits of the young girl had given way, the woman had be- 
come yet more attractive and loveable. The first London 
season after Reginald’s death she had not accompanied lier 
uncle's family to the great metropolis, but spent the period of 
their absence quietly in Scotland. The second she did not 
refuse to join them ; but scenes of festivity were so evidently 
distasteful, that her friends did not urge her entering more 
into society than her own inclinations prompted. But in her 
uncle’s house she was seen and known only to be admired and 


THE GROUP OP SCULPTURE. 


323 


loved, receiving, to her extreme astonishment, an unexception 
able offer of marriage before she had been two months in Lon 
don. It was declined gratefully, but so decidedly as to give 
no hope. Some weeks afterwards, Lord St. Clair one morn 
ing entered Annie’s room. She was alone, so intently engaged 
in drawing as not to observe the very peculiar expression oJ 
countenance with which he regarded her some minutes without 
speaking. 

“ I would give something to read your thoughts, cousin 
mine,” she said, playfully, at length raising her eyes to his 
face, which instantly resumed its usual kind and open expres- 
sion. “ I could hardly believe you were in the room, you 
were so silent.” 

“ I was thinking how very wise the world is, Annie. It 
knows and vouches for so many things concerning individuals, 
of which they are utterly ignorant themselves.” 

“ Why, what is the report now ?” 

“ Only — ” he paused for a second, then rallied so quiekly, 
that th^ huskiness of his first word was unperceived, “that 
you and I are engaged in marriage, and that I only wait till 
you are of age. that the disparity of years may seem less.” 

“ The world must think much too highly of me for such a 
report to gain credence,” replied Annie, simply, yet gravely 
though she did start at the intelligence. 

“What can you mean?” 

“ That they must hold me in much greater respect than I 
deserve, to unite my name, even in thought, with yours.” 

“ My dear Annie, can you mean that you are undeserving 
of the regard of any man, however high his worth? How 
little do you know yourself! Believe me, it is I who should 
feel proud that the world should believe this so strongly that 
not even the disparity of years between us is considered an 
objection.” 

“ Do not talk so. dear Henry, or I shall fear I am losing 
one of the truest friends I have. You have always treated 
me with such regard as never to flatter me; pray do not 
begin now.” 

“ Indeed you do me injustice, Annie ; might I not return 
the charge, and accuse you of flattering me ?” 

“ No, dear cousin. How can I do otherwise than look up 
to, and venerate your worth, associating with you at home, as 
I have done for nearly three years, and receiving such con- 
stant kindness, that had I been your own young sister you 


326 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


could not have shown more 7 Do I not see you as a son and 
brother 7 and if I did not venerate you, should I not be the 
only one, either at home or in the world, who did not do you 
the justice you deserve 

And may I not equally have learnt to know and love 

you 

“ Yes, as a child, a sister, but not as the wife you need.” 

“ Is the disparity of years, then, in your mind so great an 
obstacle 7 Do you think it quite impossible a man of eight- 
and-thirty can love a girl of twenty 7 " 

“ No, not impossible.” 

“ But impossible that a girl of twenty could love a man of 
eight-and- thirty ; is that it? 

“ Far less unlikely than the other case,” replied Annie, 
half smiling, for her complete unconsciousness caused her to 
be amused at her companion’s pertinacity. 

“ Then why should the world’s report be so utterly with- 
out foundation, dearest Annie?” inquired Lord St. Clair, with 
such a sudden change of countenance and tone that it startled 
her almost into consciousness. The arch and playful look 
vanished, her cheek paled, and the tears started to her eyes, 
and laying her hand confidingly on his arm, she said, with 
quivering lip — 

“Dearest Henry, do not let me lose the kind brother, the 
true friend I have so long believed you.” 

“You shall not, Annie,” he answered fervently, “even if 
to retain sueh appellatives makes me more miserable than you 
imagine.” 

“ Do not, do not say so ! my thoughts are all memories, 
and were the world’s report indeed true, would be faithless 
every hour; could this make your happiness?” 

“ But must this always be ? Is devotion to the departed 
a higher duty than giving happiness to the living ? So purely 
unselfish as you are, would you not in time better secure your 
own peace by giving inexpressible happiness as the beloved 
and cherished wife of the living, who would never expect you 
to love as you have loved, than by indulging in the luxury of 
memory and devotedness to one who is in heaven ? Is not 
this a question worth considering, Annie ?” 

“ Not now, now now ! oh, do not urge me now!” she im- 
plored, bursting into tears ; and her companion on the instant 
banished every word and thought of self to soothe and calm 
ner. 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


327 


A month or two afterwards, Lord St. Clair, to the astonish- 
ment of his friends, by whom he was regarded as a particularly 
quiet, stay-at-home sort of person, accepted a diplomatic em- 
bassy to the courts of Germany and Russia, likely to detain 
him twelve or eighteen monthSi He had besought and re- 
ceived Annie’s permission to correspond with her. Letters 
from a mind and heart like his could not be otherwise than 
interesting. His words returned repeatedly to her thoughts ; 
she loved him sufficiently to feel a degree of pleasure in the 
idea of adding to his happiness, and six months after he had 
left England, her answer to a letter from him, in which gen- 
eralities had merged into personalities, contained the follow- 
ing words : — 

“ If, dearest Henry, the gratitude and reverence of one 
whose best affections still linger with the dead are indeed of 
sufficient worth to give you the happiness which you tell me 
rests with me, I will not refuse to become yours, if a twelve- 
month hence you still desire it. Give me that time. The 
painful feelings with which I now look to marriage, as almost 
ffiithlessness to one who, though the actual words never passed 
his lips, I do believe loved me most truly, will then perhaps, in 
some degree at least, have subsided, and I may be able to give 
you all that your wife should bestow. I know and feel that 
time is the comforter as well as the destroyer, and that though 
it is actual agony to think that my heart will ever so change 
as to feel less acutely the loss I have sustained, I know it will 
and must, and that it is right and best it should do so. Give 
me but time, then, dearest Henry — let the memories of the 
dead be so softened that I may do my duty lovingly as well 
as faithfully to the living ; and till that may be, let us continue 
as we have been to the world and to each other.” 

Lord St. Clair did not hesitate to accede to this request. 
Even his letters did not change their tone ; he was still the 
friend more than the lover; but he contrived to shorten the 
period of his voluntary banishment, and eleven months after 
he had quitted England beheld his return. 

There was a change in Annie, however, which alarmed and 
pained him ; she was pale and thin, and strangely and fever- 
ishly restless. Lady Emily, from being constantly with her, 
had not remarked the ^reat alteration, but acknowledged, in 
answer to St. Clair’s anxious queries, that she had seemed 
more unhappy the last four months, that the calm and tranquil 
cheerfulness which had characterised her had given place to 


328 


THE GROUP OP SCULPTURE. 


alteiuatioTis of fitful gayety and more frequent depression ; but 
what had occasioned it she could not tell ; she thought it 
might be pliysical, as she had had a slight cough hanging 
about her for weeks, which nothing she took seemed to re- 
move. Four montlis previous! was it possible that she might 
regret the promises she had so ingenuously given? Lord St. 
(Hair more than once caught her glance fixed with n degree of 
pleading earnestness upon him, as if she failed in courage to 
speak : and as he was not one to encourage painful doubts 
where a word might solve them, he took an opportunity of 
kindly and affectionately inquiring why she was so changed. 

The cause was soon revealed. About ten days after she 
had written to him, as we related, she had seen, amongst other 
despatches directed to Lord St. Clair, which were lying on the 
library table waiting to be arranged and forwarded, a single 
letter, the writing of the direction of which bed caused such a 
sudden thrill and subsequent faintness, that it had been with 
difiiculty she refrained from involuntarily tearing it open, to 
know from whom it came. She said that she had endeavour- 
ed to conquer the strange fancy ; to reason with herself, that 
the resemblance to a writing she but too well remembered was 
mere accident. Yet so powerful had been its effect, that even 
when she recalled the superscription, the same feelings of 
heart-sickness returned as had overpowered her when it first 
met her eye. It had been put up with other public despatches 
— the family having before its arrival closed and sent more 
private letters ; that as he had never alluded to it. she had 
struggled to believe it could have been nothing of interest to 
her, and yet the subject would not leave her mind, allowing 
her neither sleep at night nor re.st by day. She knew it folly, 
she said, but conquer it she could not. 

And that fearful state of internal restlessness was fated to 
continue , for, most unfortunately, the packet oi despatches in 
which that was had been lost, in the overflow of a river which 
the messenger who bore it had to ford, and Lord St. Clair had 
never alluded to it, for his letters to Annie had been shorter 
than he liked, from the annoyance and increase of trouble 
which the loss of this very packet had occasioned him in his 
political employment. That the post-mark seemed Italian 
was all she could tell him, and his anxiety became as great as 
hers, though that it could really be what it was easy to dis- 
cover Annie really imagined it, he believed impossible. 

Meanwhile, the poor girl’s health — under a suspicion which. 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


S29 


however imaginary, was very fearful — did not improve, and 
her relatives rested not till a skilful physician had been con- 
sulted ; his opinion instantly decided them, and, despite of 
Annie’s resistance, a tour on the Continent was resolved on, 
Lord Ennerdale desiring her not to let him see her again, till 
she could bring back her own rosy smiling self. 

The party consisted of only Lord St. Clair, Lady Emily 
and Annie ; and, making only a brief stay at Paris, they pro- 
ceeded in a south-easterly direction, cussed the Jura, and 
fixed their residence for some weeks in the vicinity of Geneva. 
The complete change of air and scene seemed so to renovate 
Annie, that physical strength gradually returned, and with it 
more apparent calm of mind. Congeniality of taste in our 
companions is indispensable for the real enjoyment of travel- 
ling, and this Annie fully possessed ; those three years of 
intimate association with the apparently cold and passionless 
Lady Emily had deepened Annie’s regard, but not altered her 
cousin’s chilling manner. But this delicious commune with 
nature, uninterrupted by intercourse with the world, caused 
her more than once so to relax as to excite even Annie’s sur- 
prise, and convince her more than ever that Lady Emily had 
not always been what she then was. 

They were sitting one evening under the projecting roof 
of a jutting gallery belonging to a cottage in the beautiful 
valley of Chamouni ; Lord St. Clair had that day left them 
to join a party of excursionists, in an expedition somewhat too 
fatiguing for his companions. The cottage, situated on a pro- 
jecting mount or cliff, commanded a more extensive view than 
the parish of Prieure itself permits. The rich luxuriance of 
the vale stretched beneath them, intersected with clifis covered 
with foliage and large patches of emerald moss, and variously- 
tinted lichen clothing the gray stones. Here and there a true 
Alpine cottage peeped through dark woods of fir and larch, 
and the blue and sparkling Arve glided noiselessly along, still 
more lovely in the evening hour, as the glowing rays of sunset 
are contrasted with the deep shadows falling all around. 
Above them towered mountains of every form, blending their 
separate charms in a whole so sublime and extensive that 
height and breadth were lost in distance ; misty vapours, or 
light fleecy clouds, were ever wreathing their snow-capped 
brows, while Mont Blanc itself stood alone in its sublime 
grandeur, and in the unsullied purity of its snowy robe. The 
sau itself was invisible, but its glowing rays were shed upon 


S30 


THE GROUP GP SCULPTURE. 


the mountain, dyeing it with a deep, rosy flood of light peculiaf 
to that locality, and only to be described by its thrilling re* 
semblance to that fearfully brilliant flush sometimes traced on 
the countenance of mortal beauty, when life is fading imper 
ceptibly away, and the strange yet perfect loveliness rivets not 
alone the eye but the imagination with a species of fascination 
which we have no power to resist. The period of its continu- 
ance might have been from fifteen to twenty minutes, when it 
suddenly changed into a pale grayish tinge, of a shade and 
appearance so peculiar, that it affected the heart and mind 
with the same species of awe as that with which we regard the 
sudden change from brilliant life to the ashy hues of death. 

An exclamation of admiration, even of delight, broke so 
naturally from the lips of Lady Emily St. Clair, that her 
young companion looked up in her face with astonishment. 

“ Have I so surprised you, Annie?” she said, with a quiet 
smile. “ Are you still amongst those who believe that one so 
cold and silent as I am now can have no feeling for enjoyment, 
can see no beauty in nature, no poetry in the universe ?” 

“ No,” replied Annie, earnestly; “ I know so much of you 
that mere superficial observers can never know, that I can 
well believe there is still more which my inexperienced eye 
can never reach. I wish,” she added, after a short pause, and 
with some hesitation, ‘‘ that I were worthy to know you as 
you are, that you loved me sufficiently to unveil sometimes 
that which is so studiously concealed.” 

“ Do not do me such wrong, dearest Annie, as to doubt 
that I love you, because I am to you, in general, as to indif- 
ferent persons. I cannot change the manner acquired by 
months, nay, whole years of suffering, even to those whose 
affections I would do much to win. There is little of interest 
and much of suffering in my past life ; but you shall hear it 
if you will.” 

“Not if it give you pain, my kind friend,” said Annie; 
but she looked inquiringly as she seated herself on a cushion 
at her companion’s feet, and rested her arm on her knee. 
Lady Emily paused, as if collecting firmness for the task, 
then briefly spoke as follows. 

“ Few, who have only known me the last fifteen or sixteen 
years, would believe that I was once, Annie, far more enthu- 
siastic and dreamy, and what the world calls romantic, than 
you were when I first knew you. An ardent love for the ex- 
alted and the beautiful, alike in man and nature ; a restless 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


331 


craving for the pure and spiritual ; an almost loathing for all 
that was mean and earthly : these were the elements of my 
romance, but carried to an excess, that instead of being bene- 
ficial, as they might have been, became indeed the height of 
folly, which is the world’s meaning for such feelings. I was a 
poet, a visionary, an enthusiastic, feeding a naturally vivid 
imagination on the burning dreams of minds whose wings 
soared even higher than my own. By my family I was re- 
garded with admiration and love, as one whose talents would 
raise me far higher than my rank. I had the advantage of 
association with the genius and the student ; and their opinion 
of my powers, their sympathy, urged me on till I was astonished 
at myself. But there was a blank in the midst of pleasure ; 
I soared too high in the moments of excitement. My mind, 
unable to sustain itself in the airy realms of an ill-regulated 
imagination, was fraught, on its return to earth, with a gloom 
and void even more exquisitely painful than its previous mood 
had been joyful. Yet had poetry been my only gift, its pains 
and pleasures might have been confined to my own breast ; 
but the powers of satire, mine in no ordinary degree, were far 
more dangerous to myself in their baleful influence upon 
others. I indulged in the most cutting irony, careless whom 
I might wound, regardless of any feeling but my own pleasure ; 
I knew religion only as a name, whose every ordinance was 
fulfilled by attending public service once a week. I heard 
and read that, to some minds, poetry vitalizes religion, for 
every throb unanswered upon earth lifted up the whole soul to 
that world where all was love and all was joy. I laughed at 
such romance, as I termed it, for I could not understand it. 
In the gloom and void occasionally felt, pride and triumph at 
my own superiority to my fellows were the constant occupants 
of my heart, urging me but too often to level the dart of vo- 
nomed satire on those whose more worldly sentiments and 
coarser minds excited my contempt ; even the young and gentle 
often bled beneath that cruel lash, if in the merest trifle of 
word or manner they differed from my idea of excellence. 
My own family loved me too indulgently to be aware of the 
dreadful extent of this vice ; Henry, the only one whoso noble 
nature and judicious feeling would have guided me aright, was 
a student in G-ermany, and I had no one whose counsels might 
have spared me, in some measure at least, the bitter self- 
teproach which heightened the chastisement preparing for me. 

“ But I am lingering. Amongst the numerous guests at 
15 


332 


THE GROUP OF SCUT.PTURE. 


my father’s was one, combining noble birth, genius, light and 
ready wit, with all the fascination of sparkling features, grace- 
ful form, and a manner whose elegance I have never yet seen 
equalled. He courted my society; he did not flatter^ for 
that I ever scorned, but he appreciated. His manner always 
evinced respect for me, and pleasure at having found one to 
whom he could converse on nobler subjects than the mere 
chit-chat of a fashionable world. It needs not to enlarge 
upon our intimacy, or the means he took to make me believe, 
without in the least committing himself, that I was tc> him the 
object not of esteem or admiration alone. 

Why should I hesitate to speak that which is now as if il 
had never been? I loved him, Annie, how deeply and pas- 
sionately ! till my whole soul was wrapped in his image, and 
my very nature so changed, that I looked on this world with 
gentler feelings, and believe that the earth which contained 
him could not be as little worth as I had deemed it. All this 
would be useless to repeat ; the blank in my heart was filled 
up; my woman soul, which neither fame nor talent could 
satisfy, was at rest ; the actual words had not passed bis lips 
indeed, but yet I did not, could not doubt him. That is not 
love in which a doubt can enter. I was visiting a mutual 
friend, and daily in expectation of his arrival ; to relieve the 
yearning restlessness of anticipation, I had taken my tablets to 
a concealed nook in the garden, and was pouring out my whole 
soul in burning words, when his voice arrested me. The re- 
mark preceding his words I had not heard, but all which fol- 
lowed is written on my brain. 

“ ‘ Propose to Emily St. Clair !’ he said, in a tone which, 
while it retained its beautiful haa’mony, was so changed in 
expression that I only knew it his by the agony thrilling 
through my whole being at the words, ‘ Percy, you arc mock- 
ing me ! Marry a blue — a wit ! worse still, a poet ! Pray 
procure me admission into a lunatic asylum the very hour I 
make the proposal ; for, at least, were I sufficiently mad to 
say. Will you have me? certain as I am of being accepted, 
1 should escape being rendered more so. No, my good fellow, 
the lady is agreeable enough as long as I am unchained ; but 
once fettered, her folly and romance would send me to heaven 
much sooner than I have the least inclination for. Why, were 
I in such a predicament as marriage with her, how do you sup- 
pose I could live for ever the actor I am now, when conversing 
with her, drawing her out as it were, to afford me amusement 
t^fterwards? The very idea is exhaustion !' 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


333 


“ ‘ Tt is well her brothers have not seen the progi’ess of 
your attentions,’ was the reply. ‘ You might have to answer 
for such species of amusement.’ 

“ ‘ Nonsense, man ! Were the Courts of Love in vogue as 
they were once, she couhl allege nothing against me to make 
me her prisoner for life. Why, it was the very effort to keep up 
the liaison, and yet not say one word which her romantic 
fancy could construe into an offer, that was so fatiguing. Her 
delight in my society was so evident, that I was obliged to be 
on my guard ; words meaningless to others would have been 
seized upon by her, and then misericordia /’ 

“‘Out upon your consummate self-conceit; she never 
forgot her self-respect,’ was the reply, and the voices faded in 
the distance.” 

“ And you heard this !” exclaimed Annie, indignation 
compelling the interruption. “ Gracious heaven ! can there 
be such men ?” 

“ Be thankful you can still ask such a question, dearest 
Annie. I did hear — and more, remained outwardly calm ; at 
that moment I believe I was conscious but of one feeling, not 
indignation ; no, he might have spoken yet more cruelly, 
more contemptuously. I heard but one, felt but one truth — 
that he did not love me — that the deep whelming passion he 
had excited was unreturned — that he scorned those gifts 
which I had lately only valued as I believed them valued by 
him. >Iy brain reeled for the moment ; but sense and energy 
returned, as gradually, but with fearful distinctness, his every 
word and tone resounded in my ear. Anguish, which had 
been the first feeling, was as nothing literally nothing, to that 
chaos of misery which followed — to disrobe the idol my heart 
had so madly worshipped of the bright colouring of honour 
and worth, to teach myself he was unworthy, had deceived, 
wilfully deceived. What was the suffering of unrequited 
love compared wdth this ? He had said, too. that my prefer- 
ence was so evident, I would have grasped the faintest whis- 
per of an offer. I knew the charge was false as himself ; but 
that he should have believed it, added its bitter pang. How 
was I to act ? My brow was burning, my pulses throbbing, yet 
return to my own home I would not ; I would not feign illness., 
though God knows it would have been little feigned. I would 
meet him, pass in his company the period I had promised to 
iny friend, and then I cared not.” 

“ And you did this ?” asked Annie, clasping Lady Emily’s 


334 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


hand in both hers, and almost startled at its coldness — the 
only proof that the narrator told not her tale unmoved. 

“ I did more, my child. Though poetry and satire were 
now to me but fearful spectres, from which a tortured spirit 
shrank — though that very hour I burned every fragment of 
composition once so precious, yet, during three long weary 
weeks, I was to him and to a,! around me as I had always 
been ; perhaps even more sparkling, more animated, and far 
more joyous. Without any visible effort, I so far changed 
in bearing towards him, that instead of finding in his conver- 
sation as before an echo to my own, I questioned, I doubted, 
and more than once I saw him quail beneath my glance or 
tone, compelled, ere we parted, to doubt the influence which 
he had boasted he possessed. But what availed all this ? It 
did not, could not quench the burning fever within ; and when I 
returned to the quiet of my father’s roof, the tight-strung 
cord was snapped, and overwrought energies so gave way, that 
for months, nay, years, the effects of that struggle were visible 
in a state of health so precarious, so exhausted, that I have 
seen my poor father pace my chamber hour by hour in silent 
agony, without the power to address him. For many months 
all was to me a blank ; yet I believe I was not wholly insensible 
nor always under the influence of fever. Ere I recovered 
sufficiently again to mingle with the world, he who had so de- 
ceived me became the husband of another ; and that other, 
one who had been my dearest friend, and who has shunned me 
since as if she too had deceived, and had courted me from 
policy, not love. I have had no proof that this really was the 
case, but my faith in all that was good, and beautiful, and 
true was so shaken, I believed it as a thing that must be, for 
such was human nature. This marriage sufficiently accounted 
to my family for my mysterious illness. Indignation was so 
generally felt, that had I been awake to outward things, my 
mind might have been perfectly at rest that I had given him 
no undue encouragement: and his manner had indeed been 
such as to give, not alone to myself, but to all who had ob- 
served. no doubt of his apparent meaning; but I knew nothing 
of all this. While chained to my couch by bodily exhaustion, 
memories of my past life rose to appal me, and to add the 
bitter agony of unmitigated self-reproach to that of unrequited 
affection. Precious gifts had been intrusted to me, and what 
account could I re’nder of them at that aw^'ul throne, before 
^hieh daily, almost hourly, I expected tc be summoned] 


THE GROUP OP SCULPTURE. 


335 


TLey had estranged me from my God, and from his creatures. 
I learned to feel his words were true. Unguided by either 
religion or reason, what could I have been but the idle fol- 
lower of folly and romance ? No throb of kindness or of gentle 
feeling had interfered to check the attempt I felt for. and 
breathed in cutting satire upon, others. I had wilfully 
trampled on many a young kind heart, and it was but just 
that I should have been thus trampled on myself. Pre- 
sumption and self-conceit caused me to smile, to scorn tho 
censure of the world, and in all probability my manner had 
been too unguarded. This bitter self-humiliation only in- 
creased the struggle to forget that I had loved. In reproach- 
ing myself I ceased to reproach him ; the pride that had sup- 
ported me was gone. These thoughts continually pressing on 
heart and brain were, I am well aware, the sole sources of my 
long and incurable disease, but I had no power to shake them 
off ; and, fearfully as I suffered, I have never ceased to bless 
the gracious hand that sent the chastening, and recalled me, 
ere it was too late, unto himself” 

Lady Emily paused ; the quivering of her voice and lip 
betraying emotion which she evidently struggled to suppress, 
Annie’s tears were falling on her hand, and ere she spoke 
again, she bent down and kissed her forehead. 

“ You now know, dearest Annie, more of me than I ever 
breathed to mortal ear,” she resumed, in her usual calm and 
quiet tone, “ more than I ever thought could pass my lips. 
But do not weep for me, my child ; I am happier, safer new, 
than I could have been had the wild, misguided feelings of 
earlier life continued It was no small portion of my suffer- 
ing so to control myself as never to give vent to the satirical 
bitterness that, when I rejoined the world, tinged my words 
and thoughts more darkly than ever. The determination 
never to use that dangerous gift, gave to my words and man 
ner a stiffness and cold reserve which have banished from me 
all those whose regard I would have done much to win. Many 
young loving hearts have shrunk from me, perceiving no sym- 
pathy in their warm imaginations and glowing feelings ; and I 
dared not undeceive them, for I felt no confidence in myself, 
and feared again to avow sentiments I had buried so deejdy 
in my own heart. Others again shunned me, because terrified 
at a semblance of austerity, which they could not know was 
exercised only towards myself ; and frequently have I wept in 
decret at tlie loneliness which seemed to characterise my path 


336 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


on earth. Even you, my Annie, gentle and forbeariug as you 
were, till I could not but love you, have often checked your 
animated words beneath the cold, withering influence of my 
glance or smile.” 

Do not call it cold and withering, my dear, kind friend.” 
replied Annie, warmly. “ I learned to love you long before 
I dared hope to win your regard ; but could I doubt you in 
my hour of anguish? Though even then I did you wrong; 
for I thought I was alone in my misery — and you had sufifered 
doubly more.” 

“ You needed not such awful chastisement, my love ; I 
brought it on myself. But you are right ; fearful as is the 
death of a beloved one, it is happiness compared to the death 
of love^ to the blasting of our belief in the good and true ; 
the disrobing an idol, till we ask what it is we have loved. 
My dearest Annie, bless God that this you have been 
spared.” 

Annie was silent several minutes, and then raising her 
head, she abruptly and strangely asked, " Aye, this ; but there 
are other trials. Oh, Lady Emily, what must be the agony 
of that heart, who, sacrificing for the sake of the living the 
memories of the supposed dead, finds too late, that circum- 
stances, not death, have come between her and the object of 
her first affection ; that they love each other still, yet must be 
strangers, parted more completely than by death ? What must 
be her duty then ? ” 

“ You ask me a difficult question, my dear child. If the 
heart clings to such a thought, better never wed.” 

A bright gleam, as of relief, flitted over Annie’s features ; 
but, changing the subject as abruptly as she had entered upon 
it, she asked, with hesitation, “ And that poetic talent to which 
vou have alluded, do you never exercise it now ? ” 

“ Never,” replied Lady Emily, taking her companion’s 
arm, and entering the house. “ On my first recovery I dared 
not, for my sinful abuse of the power had been too recent ; 
though I do believe, that as my taste had completely changed 
in the poets which I read, so too would my writings have 
done. But year after year passed ; gradually I destroyed 
every memorial of my past life, and found peace and happi- 
ness in the employment which you have seen and aided, until 
at length even the inclination to write passed away : and I 
forgot, even as you must, dear girl,” she added, with a smile, 
that I had been a poet, and one of no mean grade.” 


THE GROEP OF SCULPTURE. 


337 


The silent pressure of Annie’s hand was sufficient guar* 
antee for Lady Emily that her confidence had not been mis- 
placed ; and she was happier, for she no longer feared that, 
misunderstanding, Annie would at length shrink from her. 

VV^e will not linger with our travellers while en route. 
They visited all of interest in Naples and Rome, and resolved 
on passing the winter at Florence. Many weeks had passed 
in their delightful tour ; Annie’s health was decidedly renova- 
ted ; but there were still times when her spirits seemed to 
sink beneath a weight of depression for which neither of her 
relatives could account. Each month that passed diminished 
the time specified by Annie as the term of mourning, and yet 
Lord St. Clair vainly tried to rejoice ; he saw that, instead of 
decreasing, the memory of Reginald became stronger — that 
the extraordinary impression made by the superscription of 
the letter would remain — and ardently he wished that Annie 
had followed her impulse, and opened it ere it was sent on. 
He never spoke of love, he never recalled her promise, and 
Annie so blessed him for his forbearance that, could she but 
have realized the universal belief in the death of Reginald, 
she would at once have given him her hand, glad to exchange 
the torturing doubts which engrossed her for the tranquil 
calm which must, she thought, attend devotion to one who so 
nobly proved the love he bore herself. 

The many interesting works of ancient art in Florence, so 
riveted the attention and occupied the time of our English 
travellers, that the one subject engrossing the whole attention 
of the Florentines was for some little time unheeded. The 
town was full of the unrivalled success of a young sculptor, 
who had burst into fame, no one knew how or where. He had 
b^en studying the last two years, amidst the superb specimens 
of art, in the galleries of Florence, but so silently, so uras- 
eumingly, that he was only known as famous. His copies of 
Canova and other celebrated sculptors had been pronounced 
perfect by able judges ; but it was not till he had completed 
%n original group that he at all seemed to sue for notice, and 
when that did appear, the easily-excited Italians received it 
with such universal admiration, that the unknown artist was 
sought for on all sides, courted, flattered, and, better far, 
api»reciated by those whose opinions were of value. Italy i? 
indeed the country where talent may rise to eminence, foster 
cd and cherished by the encouragement for which it so thirsts 
In this case however, the interest excited originally by genius 


338 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


was heightened by the reserved manners of the young sculp- 
tor, who rather shrunk from than courted notice, except from 
the Italians themselves. It was rarely an English soiree 
could obtain the favour of his presence. His appearance and 
name declared him Spanish, a supposition which, as he never 
contradicted it, gained universal belief. That he spoke Eng- 
lish, French, and Italian as fluently as Spanish, and was inti- 
mately acquainted with their literature, only proved that his 
mental capabilities were not confined merely to his art. How 
he found time to execute all the orders for busts, ornamental 
groups, &c., which he received was a mystery to the idler, and 
a wonder even to the brethren of his craft, greatly heightened 
when his first original group appeared. It was not alone the 
execution, but the daring boldness of his subject which had 
occasioned such universal notice. Boldly leaving the beaten 
path of classic subjects, his group, though consisting only of 
three figures, embodied a striking incident in the earliest 
stage of the French revolution. A young and beautiful girl 
had flung herself before an aged parent, clasping his neck 
with one hand, and by the attitude of the other, combined 
with the expression of the face, was evidently imploring life 
for him, even by the sacrifice of her own. On the touching 
and, to the Italian eye, somewhat peculiar beauty of the face, 
the matchless grace of the attitude, and exquisitely modelled 
limbs, the sculptor appeared to have lingered till he had out- 
done himself. The countenance of the father breathed but 
admiring love for the heroic being whom his arm encircled, 
as if every thought centred in her, to the total exclusion of 
all terror for himself Before them, in a crouching attitude, 
as in the act of filling a goblet with the loathsome fluid which 
deluged the streets, was a half-naked form, whose ruffian 
features and muscular limbs contrasted well with the graceful 
beauty and nobleness of form in the other figures. The head 
was upraised, a withering sneer upon the lips, a combination 
of triumph and barbarity on the whole countenance, which 
so explained the tale it recorded, that, as an animated 
Italian told Lord St. Clair, the heart of the gazers throbbed, 
and the cheek paled, as if life itself were before them. It 
stood in an apartment of the Palazzo Vecchio, where he en- 
treated his English friends to go and see it. “ I will not only 
see this wonderful group, but make acquaintance with its 
artist,” he replied ; for, after hearing all this, know him 1 
win.” 


THU GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


339 


That you will find some difficulty in doing,” was the re* 
joinder. Ho shrinks from all you English ; besides, he is, I 
believe, now at Bologna, and his return is uncertain.” 

“Never mind; trust me for making acquaintance with 
this lion, shy though he be.” 

“ There is but one fault in his female figure,” observed a 
gentleman who had joined the group, and was greeted with 
much warmth by Lord St. Clair, “ a fault which we English 
ought to consider a virtue, but yet is in contradiction to Sig- 
nor Castellan’s apparent reserve towards our countrymen. 
The beauty of the female is too English for a French incident 
and purely French characters. It is very lovely, I grant, but 
the loveliness is our own.” 

The observation naturally produced a warm discussion, 
which ended, as most discussions do, in each party retaining 
his own opinion ; and Lord St. Clair taking his newly-found 
old friend home with him, introduced him to Lady Emily and 
Annie. 

“ And are you settled down at last, Kenrich, tired of 
wanderings and adventures ? though last time I heard of you. 
you were actually enjoying the wars and cabals of Madrid.'" 

“ I am not very sober yet, St. Clair ; but I was fool 
enough to join the Carlists three or four years ago, and their 
barbarity to my own countrymen so sickened me of war, that 
I threw up my commission, and have never drawn sword 
since.” 

“ What barbarity?” asked Lord St. Clair, catching almost 
by instinct more than look the expression of Annie’s face. 

“ Why, you must have heard — the English papers were 
full of it — that fine fellow, Captain De Vere, was amongst 
them. He and eight or ten others were taken prisoners, and 
were all murdered — for it was nothing else.” 

“ But are you sure he was amongst them ? We all knew 
and loved De Vere, and long hoped he n)ight have escaped, 
and only been reported amongst the killed.” 

“ Escaped, my dear fellow ! how was that possible ? Be- 
sides, he was so terribly wounded, that he could not have sur- 
vived, even had they not so cruelly dealt with him. I could not 
»ave him, but I saw him decently interred, and from that mo- 
nent loathed military service, and left Spain.” 

“ It was full time, I think,” quietly rejoined Lady Emily. 
“ Annie, will you try if you can match this shade for mo 
amongst the chenilles in my room ? I cannot finish this leaf 
svithout it, and your eyes are better than mine.” • 


340 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


Annie took the chenille designated from the frame, over 
which her cousin was bending so intently in seeming, that she 
did not even look up as she addressed her, and quietly left 
the room. The moment she did so, Edward Kenrich burst 
into lavish praises of her beauty, declaring that was the exact 
style of Castellan’s figure, and therefore he was right, and it 
must be too English for perfect art, so running on in ‘his usual 
wild strain, that Lord St. Clair had great diflSculty in bring- 
ing him back to the point from w'hich he had started, and gather- 
ing from him every particular of the death of Reginald Do 
Yere. 

Annie did not reappear, and Lady Emily’s great desire to 
finish her leaf seemed to have subsided with her absence, for 
she made no effort to recall her. Just before dinner however. 
Lord St. Clair, noticing the flutter of her white dress between 
the orange trees, which almost concealed the balcony leading 
from the drawing-room, hastily rejoined her. She looked up 
in his face without a word, but he answered her thoughts, ten- 
derly and gently repeating all the information he had gained. 
There could be no doubt, and for one brief moment the poor 
girl’s head sunk on his arm, with a sudden burst of tears. 

“ I know it is all folly, Henry. I had no right to hope ; 
forgive me, I do but distress you ; and yet that writing — that 
strange writing, whom could it have been from ?” 

“ Not from Reginald, dearest, or it would have been to 
you, not to me. Has that never struck you, Annie?” 

It had not till that moment, and it convinced her. She 
remained alone that evening, in deep meditation and earnest 
prayer ; ar i the result was a firm conviction that nothing but 
a new and solemn duty would restore her to the calm of mind 
foi which she yearned — that devotion to another well worthy 
of it must draw her from herself A sleepless night confirmed 
this resolution, and the very next day the promise passed her 
lips to be the wife of Lord St. Clair, within a week of their 
return to England. A few days afterwards they went to the 
celebrated church of Santa Croce during vesper service. The 
magnificent interior, heightened in its effect by the light and 
shadow flung by huge waxen tapers, the superb nioiiuments, 
the white-stoled monks and dark dresses of the officiating 

{ )riests, the kneeling and standing group, silent and motiou- 
ess as the marble monuments around — the deep-toned organ, 
and swelling voices of the choristers, completely enchained 
the imaginations of our travellers. It was strange, excited 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


341 


almost to pain as she was, that Annie at length found hei 
whole attention unconsciously fixed on a sfhgle figure, who was 
leaning against the tomb of Michael Angelo. His face was 
turned from her, but there was something in his bearing and 
his attitude which riveted her as by a spell, and the longing to 
look on his face became strangely and indefinably intense. 
The soft light of a taper burning over the tomb brought out 
in good relief the stranger’s uncovered head, whose small and 
classic shape was shaded by clustering hair of glossy black. 

“There he is ! there is our sculptor, Renaud Castellan !’* 
whispered one of the Italians who had accompanied them, 
directing Lord St. Clair’s attention to the very figure on whom 
Annie’s gaze was so strangely fixed; but even as he spoke, 
the young man moved his position, and disappeared in one of 
the aisles, leaving Annie’s desire to see his face ungratified, 
and only permitting Lord St. Clair to catch the outline of his 
figure. 

“Was not Mrs. De Vere’s maiden name Castellan?'’ St. 
Clair asked of Annie, as they walked together from the church 
to the house of their Italian friend, who had claimed them 
for a petit souper^ and some music. The answer was in the 
affirmative, and Lord St. Clair remarked it would be strange 
tf this young Spaniard proved to be of the same family. “ I 
must seek him out.” 

“ See his group first,” was the rejoinder of one of the 
party ; while to Annie the wmrds seemed to disperse the mis- 
erable doubts again thronging round her — being of the same 
family might account for a casual resemblance. 

It was with some little difficulty Annie was prevailed upon 
to sing ; but when once seated at her harp, timidity gave 
place to her real love of the art, and the simple purity, the 
touching pathoe of her style charmed all who heard. The 
entrance of a guest had not interrupted her, nor disturbed the 
listeners. Lord St. Clair was amused at the look of admir- 
ing perplexity with which he regarded Annie, not himself per- 
ceiving that, where the Italian stood, the light fell upon her 
countenance, so as to give it a different appearance and ex- 
pression to that which was generally perceivable. 

Approaching her, as soon as the buzz of admiration had 
somewhat subsided, he engaged her in animated conversation ; 
nor was Lord St. Clair’s curiosity lessened by hearing him 
inquire “ if the signorina were not acquainted with the young 
sculptor, of whom all Florence raved ?” Much surprised, she 
answered in the negative. 


342 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


“ But surelj you have been introduced to him, have you 
not?” • 

“ No,” replied Annie, smiling at his earnestness. “ I never 
even heard of him till I came here ; and he has been at Bo- 
logna, till this evening, ever since.” 

“ Then he has seen you, signora, either in his sleeping or 
waking dreams,” was the rejoinder, in so animated a tone 
that it arrested the attention of the whole party ; “ for never 
did marble and life resemble each other as the beauty of your 
face and of his creation. Surely you must all see it,” he con- 
tinued, turning to his friends with the sparkling vivacity pe- 
culiar to his countrymen when excited. “ Why, it is not fea- 
ture alone, but the character, the grace, the similarity is per- 
fect !” 

“ I told you so, but you would not believe me,” bluntly 
answered Kenrich. “ I told you it was an English face and 
English character ; but you all denied it. I am glad my lovely 
countrywoman has opened your eyes.” 

“ Why this is better and better, Annie ; do not blush so 
prettily about it,” whispered Lord St. Clair, as, attention once 
aroused, the similarity was universally acknowledged. “If 
the resemblance be chance, it is something to marvel at ; if 
intentional, why I shall be jealous of the sculptor.” 

“ You need not, Henry,” was the reply, in a tone so sad 
that it pained him. 

“ W ell, well, we will go and see it at least, love, and judge 
of its merit with our own eyes.” 

The next day accordingly they went, and (the most con- 
vincing proof of the perfection of the work) were not disap- 
pointed. Neither its beauty nor its eloquence had been 
exaggerated, and the resemblance to Annie was so extraordi- 
nary that the eyes of all tbe spectators within the room were 
attracted towards her ; but the expression of the countenance 
of the father iu the group riveted her attention far more than 
the female figure. It was with a heavy sigh she turned from 
it, and was pale and silent during their way home; but St. 
Clair was so engrossed by the beauty of the work, the strange 
resemblance, and his resolution to leave no stone unturned to 
gain the acquaintance of the young artist, that it passed un- 
noticed even by him 

“ Why, what ails you, Annie ? are you not well, dear ?” 
kindly inquired Lady Emily, some hours later. Wondering 
^hy her yioung companion did not join her as usual, she had 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 34c 

•ought her in her own room, and found her with her face 
buried in her hands, and her whole attitude denoting suffer- 
ing. Henry has gone to seek out this Signor Castellan, to 
find out, if he can, in what this strange similarity originated 
and who and what he is.” 

“ Shall I tell you ?” answered Annie, in a tone so strange 
that it startled almost as much as the whiteness of her face. 

Reginald Castellan de V ere ! W as not his mother’s name 
Castellan ? and has he not often and often boasted his descent 
from Spanish heroes, and from this feeling fought for Spain 
in preference to any other country ? Did he not always love 
the art of sculpture 1 Can it be chance that has marked the 
father and daughter of the group with the characteristics of 
the revered friend and favourite companion of his youth ? No, 
no, no ! Oh ! Lady Emily, you bade me once thank God that 
I had never been deceived ; teach me how to bear this.” 

“ Bear what, my poor child ?” replied her companion, sooth- 
ingly, as Annie threw herself on her neck in fearful agitation. 
“ If this be indeed as you say, what can there be but happi- 
ness for you ? It is for another we must feel.” 

“ Happiness for me ! and he has never even so far thought 
of me as to tell me the report of his death was false, and he 
still lived — never recalled himself to one whom, when he de- 
parted, he so loved — loved ! how know I that ? he never said 
it ; why should I believe him different to others ?” 

“ My dearest Annie, this is not like yourself Why, if he 
have ceased to love you, should the work of his hand — a work 
which must have employed his mind and heart long days and 
nights — bear the impress of your face and form ?” 

“ Memory, association, mere casualty — the days of his boy- 
hood may be dear to his mind ; but now can affection, even a 
brother’s have inspired that group, when — when he has allowed 
me so long to believe him dead ?” 

“ It is all a mystery, my dear child ; but I feel convinced 
it will be solved, if we can really' prove his identity. May he 
not have written, and the letter miscarried ?” Annie wildly 
raised her head. “ May he not have been deceived ? perhaps 

for we can never trace rumours — but may he not have heard 

that of you which, to a mind like his, would cause him to shrink 
fiom recalling himself? He left you such a child, how might 
he build on having so won your regard that you would remain 
single for his sake ? Dearest Annie, if this indeed be not all 
imagination, and Reginald really lives, trust me you will be 
happy yet.” 


844 


HE GROUF OF ^SCULPTURE. 


How will a few judicious words change the whole current 
of thought and feeling ! Before Lady Emily ceased to speak, 
Annie was weeping such blessed tears. The proud, cold mood 
which, had her companion spoken as her own experience of 
man’s nature must have dictated, might have been retained 
and made her miserable for life, dissolved before returning 
trust and hope. She dared not define what it was she hoped ; 
but it was not till she heard Lord St. Clair’s voice, and she 
tiled to spring forwards to meet him and know the truth, that 
a sudden revulsion of feeling so completely overpowered her 
that she sunk back upon the couch. How dared she rejoice, 
even if Reginald lived? what could he be to her who was the 
promised bride of another ? 

“ Emily !’ exclaimed Lord St Clair, in utter astonishment, 
as, on his enter. ng the drawing-room, his cold and dignified 
sister hastily met him, and taking both his hands, tried to 
speak, but failed ; and leaning her head against him, he felt 
that she was in tears. “ What is the matter, love? something 
very dreadful, for you to weep.” 

She controlled herself with a strong effort, and en leered at 
once into the recital of the scene between her and Annie. 

Could it possibly be as she supposed ?” 

“ It may be,” was the reply, in a calm, firm tone ; “ there 
is nothing impossible in it. I w'ent to his lodgings, but, as I 
supposed, he was either out or too much engaged to be seen ; 
but I am to meet him to night at the Contessa Corsini’s, and 
this strange mystery will be unravelled.” 

And you. dear Henry — ” she could say no more, so holy 
seemed his feelings. 

And I. my dear sister, will act as that man should whos*? 
aim is not the gratification of his own desires, but the happi- 
ness of one far dearer than himself I do not tell you I shall 
not feel, and deeply ; but does the warrior shrink from the 
battle before him because he may be wounded ? You may 
love me more, my Emily, if you will,” he continued, fondly 
passing his arm round her. and kissing her cheek, for affec- 
tion is always balm ; but I will have no tears — they are only 
for the unworthy. Where is Annie? poor child, she must bo 
overwrought, from many causes ; let me see her, she will be 
calmer then.” 

He was right. What passed between them it needs not 
to relate Our readers can little enter intottie high character 
of Lord St, Clair, if they cannot satisfy themselves as to the 


THE GROUP OP SCULPTURE, 


346 


manner, as well as the nature and extent, of the sacrifice he 
made. He was not one to wring the gentle heart he so un- 
selfishly resigned, by the betrayal of personal suhering ; he 
coveted the continuance, nay, the increase of her regard, and 
nobly he earned it. 

In was a brilliant scene on which, a few hours later, ho 
entered, introduced by the same Italian, Signor Lanzi, who 
had been the first to trace the resemblance between Annie and 
the female figure of the group. But neither loveliness nor 
talent, both of which thronged the halls, had at that moment 
attraction for Lord St. Clair ; his glance had singled out a 
tall, slight form, leaning against a marble pillar, and half 
shaded by the drapery of a curtain. His head was bent down ; 
he seemed in the act of listening and replying to the smiling 
jests of the countess, who was sitting near him ; the cheek 
and brow were very pale, and the mouth, when still, somewhat 
stern in expression ; but it was a fine face, bearing the stamp 
of genius too visibly ever to be passed unremarked. 

You may smile, and look incredulous, signor,” were the 
words that first met the ears of the English nobleman, from 
the young countess, in Italy’s sweetest tone ; but since you 
deserted us for Bologna, a living likeness has appeared of 
your beautiful Amelie,” 

‘‘ Mademoiselle de Sombreuil herself, perhaps,” he replied, 
half smiling. “ Fancy would indeed have served me well, had 
such a chance occurred.” 

“You are quite wrong. I doubt whether Mademoiselle 
de Sombreuil would herself resemble your fancy statue, as 
much as la bella Inglese does.” 

“ La bella Inglese ! who may she be?” inquired the young 
sculptor, somewhat agitated. 

“ A lovely girl, w'ho only appeared in Florence as you left 
it. Lanzi informed me the resemblance was so perfect, he 
imagined she must know you; but she had never even heard 
^f you till she came here.” 

“ And what may be her name ?” 

“ As you seem so interested, I regret that I cannot tel) 
you. It is so truly English that it will bear no Italian accent 
therefore I cannot remember it: but find Lanzi, I expect bin. 
here to night, and he will tell you all about her.” 

The arrival of new guests, and the attention of the coun 
tess called for from himself, the sculptor hastily turned, as 
Ui the act of seeking the individual she had named. He had 


346 


THE GROUP OP SCULPTURE. 


not advanced many yards when he started violently, and with 
a sudden impulse retreated into a small withdrawing room, 
near which he had stood. 

‘‘Why shun me, Signor Castellan ?” inquired a frank, kind 
voice in English ; and Lord St. Clair’s hand was extended, 
and, after a moment’s visible hesitation, accepted and almost 
convulsively pressed. “ Why this long mysterious concealment 
my young friend ? were there none, think you, to rejoice that 
you were still amongst the living?” 

“ Was not your lordship aware of my existence, insignifi- 
cant as it is, more than a twelvemonth since? My own hand 
and signature were surely sufficient guarantee,” he answered, 
in a cold proud tone. 

“ Then you did write, and Annie was not deceived ! Little 
did I know the precious intelligence contained in the packet, 
lost on its way to me in Russia, and the want of which, in a 
political view, caused me such annoyance. But why wait so 
long, my dear fellow, to give us tidings so many would have 
rejoiced to hear?” 

“ So many ! There were more, then, to mourn me dead, 
than to love me living ! But, forgive me,” he continued, less 
bitterly ; “ your family would have been my friends, and there- 
fore was it I wrote to tell you that I lived.” 

“ But was there not one, Reginald, who deserved an earlier 
notice at your hands ? why leave her so long to mourn you as 
dead, and then to learn such joyful tidings from others than 
yourself? The ties of early youth, of fond associations, I 
should have thought sufficient of themselves alone to prevent 
such wrong.” 

Reginald’s very lip grew white as he replied, “Was not 
her husband the fittest person to give Lady St. Clair such 
tidings ?” 

“ Her husband, Reginald ? You speak enigmas.” 

“How!” gasped the young man, as he laid his cold and 
trembling hand on his companion’s arm. “ Is not Annie Grey 
your wife ?” 

“No!” replied Lord St. Clair, the peculiar expression 
clouding his noble countenance for the moment passing unno- 
ticed ; “ her heart was with the dead !” 

Reginald Be Vere struggled with bursting emotion, but 
his trembling limbs refused to support him ; and sinking pow- 
erlessly on a sofa, he covered his face with his hands, and wept 
such tears as only spring from manhood’s unutterable joy. 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


347 


It still wanted an hour to midnight, and Lady Emily was 
in vain endeavouring to prevail on Annie to retire to rest. 

“ You are feverish and worn out already, Annie. How 
will you be able to support the excitement of to-morrow with- 
out rest to-night?” 

“ It would be no rest if I lie down ; I cannot sleep. Only 
let mo know he lives !” and she twined her arms round Lady 
Emily's neck, and looked so appealingly, so mournfully, no 
heart could have urged more, 

There was a pause of several minutes, and then Annie 
started up. 

“ It is Henry’s step !” she exclaimed, and would have 
sprung forward, but her feet felt rooted to the ground ; an- 
other moment Lord St. Clair was at her side. 

Promise me to bear the shock of joy better than you did 
the shock of grief, or I can tell you nothing,” he said, gently ; 
but there was no need for another word. Faint as she was, 
every object in the room seeming to swim before her eyes, 
every word to be indistinct, yet one figure was visible, one voice 
calling her his own, own Annie — beseeching her to forgive and 
bless him ! reached her heart, and loosed its icy chains, till 
she could breathe again. She felt not that strength had en- 
tirely deserted her, for she was clasped to the heart of Regi- 
nald He V ere, and the deadly faintness passed in the gushing 
tears that fell upon his bosom. 

###*### 

Mysterious as was Reginald He Yere’s silence, its causes 
may be summed up in a few words. To his owm generous 
deed, recorded in the early part of our tale, he owed the pre- 
servation of his life. When bleeding and exhausted he was 
led a prisoner to the Carlist camp, he was instantly recognised 
by the poor woman whose child he had saved, and whom he 
had sent on to her husband. The tale of his kindness, his 
generosity, his bravery had been repeated again and again by 
the happy wife, and created amongst the common soldiery a 
complete sensation in his favour ; so that very many were 
found eager and willing to aid Juan Pacheco in his resolu- 
tion to return the good conferred and save his wife’s benefac- 
tor at the hazard of his own life. He had already been dis- 
gusted with his life in the camp ; the beauty of his young 
wife had exposed him and her to insults which, as he had no 
power to retaliate, urged him to seize the first opportunity to 
desert. One by one the prisoners had been led to executior\ 


848 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE 


and one l»y one liad fallen. Keginald, unable to support him* 
self from wounds and exhaustion, though quite conscious he 
was placed there to die, was loosely bound to a post, as a 
better mark to the soldiers who fronted him. They fired — 
the gir things wiiicli bound him gave way, and a dead faint 
succeeded ; but they had fired with harmless weapons, and 
wliun lieginald awoke from what he fancied death, he found 
himself m a covered cart, carefully watched and tended by 
the young mother and her boy whom he recognised at once ; 
his captain’s uniform placed on the body of a young Spaniard 
who had fallen in battle, and whose features were not un- 
like those of De Vere, no doubt caused Edward Kenrich’s 
belief in his being really Reginald, and his having been in 
consequence honourably interred. Juan Pacheco’s knowledge 
of the wilds and intricate windings of his native country en- 
abled him ably to elude the pursuit to which, as a deserter, 
he was liable; but De Vere suffered so dreadfully from al- 
ternate fever and exhaustion, during the journey, that many 
times his kind preservers feared their care would be in vain, 
and death would release him ere earthly rest and shelter were 
obtained. Rut at length the goal was gained — a small cottage 
belonging to a monastery of 8aint lago, situated in so retired 
a pass of the Pyrenees that none but mountaineers knew of 
its existence. Linder the skilful medical aid of one of the 
fathers Reginald slowly regained health ; but it was not till 
nearly a year after his supposed death that he regained the 
elasticity and entire use of his limbs, such as he had previ- 
ously enjoyed. The severity of monastic discipline did not 
charact nuse the monks of Saint lago. They were but few in 
number; old and respectable men, who had turned from the 
distracting turmoils of their unhappy country, and sought 
peace in study and deeds of kindness. In one of these aged 
men Reginald discovered an uncle of his mother — one who 
had always mourned her departure to another land, and union 
with a heretic, but who had loved her to the end, and w’as 
wulling to receive with afl'ectiou any of her children. The 
fearful sufferings and deep melancholy of the young English- 
man had attracted him, even before the picture of his niotiier, 
wdiich Reginald constantly wore, discovered the relation- 
ship between them. For nearly two years De Vere remain 
ed in this solitude; the fear of drawing down ruin and 
misery on his preservers prevented his writing to his com- 
manding officer, to state his escape — Padre Pelipo alleging 


THE GROi;P OF SCULPTURE. 


349 


the .state of the country was such, that liis letter might not 
only be seized and himself retaken, but Pacheco exposed to 
the danger of execution as a deserter and abettor of his es- 
cape. After the first year he made many attempts to com- 
municate with his friends in England — Annie Grey amongst 
the number — but he never heard in return ; therefore conclud- 
ed, and with justice, that his letters had never reached a post. 

Put the two years of solitude, instead of being a mental 
blank, was the hinge of circumstances on which his whole after- 
career turned. To amuse his confinement and please the chil- 
dren, he resumed the favorite amusement of his boyhood, 
carving in wood and stone, and with such success as to as- 
tonish himself. He found an admirer and instructor where 
he little expected it, in one of the monks ; and under his 
guidance, and emboldened by encouragement, made such rapid 
progress, that his whole soul became wrapt in the desire to 
visit Italy, and study there. His pantings for fame were now 
dedned — a flash of light seemed to have irradiated his whole 
being, and to burst the chains of destiny, which still cramped 
energy and life. It was the consciousness of genius, the 
proud conviction that he might indeed win the object of his 
love ; win, and be worthy of her, and give her a name proud 
as those of the men of genius whose lives they had read and 
venerated together. 

The days when all the fortunes of the monks were devoted 
to their abbeys or to a patron saint were over, and Padre Fe- 
lipo rejoiced at possessing the means effectually to aid his 
young relative. lie settled on him a sum more than sufficient 
to gratify all his d 'sires, and Reginald hesitated no longer to 
concentrate all his energies on this one pursuit. He went- 
to Italy, adopting the name of his benefactor, which was also 
that of his mother; and the wish not to be known in England, 
until he had perfected himself in his art, caused him to re- 
tain it, even wffien no danger was attached to the acknowledg- 
ment of his existence. 

But once in Italy, the yearning to hoar of his family and 
friends became intense, while a strange feeling of dread with- 
held him from again addressing Annie. It was two years 
and a half since they had parted, two since he had been 
reported dead. What might not have occurred in that 
interval'? He had left her free, and so childlike, so simple in 
character, that how could he, how dared he indulge the hope 
that she had so returned his love, as to remain single for his 


350 


THE GROUP OP SCULPTURE. 


Bake ? He had never spoken of love to her ; his affection was 
so pure and true, that it had withheld him from linking, by a 
too impetuous avowal, her fate with one so gloomy as his own. 
His genius seemed now to promise a fairer destiny, but his 
heart, still darkened by the fearful creed of fatalism, believed 
that this very promise would be dashed with gloom, and from 
the ascendency of this unhappy feeling, failing in courage to 
address Annie herself, he wrote to one of his sisters, beseech- 
ing a speedy reply, with information of his father, and all she 
could learn of Miss Grey. The reply was many weeks before 
it came, pleading the usual excuse for unjustifiable silence — 
stress of occupation and dislike to letter-writing. Basil Be 
Yere was in America, and Miss Grey on the eve of marriage 
with Lord St. Clair ; the whole London world was full of it, 
on account of the disparity of years between the parties, and 
because Lord St. Clair had never seemed a marrying man ; 
but that it was a settled affair there was not the smallest 
doubt. She wrote as if it could concern Beginald but little ; 
but the pang was such as to confirm his fearful creed of an 
inexorable fate, and plunge him into a despondency, that 
genius itself seemed unable to remove. At first he worked 
at his art mechanically ; but gradually his mind became 
aroused, and he tried to forget the heart’s anguish in such 
persevering labour, that though to mere observers its effects 
were marvellous in so speedy a perfection, it was, in fact, but 
the natural consequence of unceasing mental and manucipal 
work. He constantly reproached himself for the agony he 
felt ; what right had he to suppose he had had any hold upon 
her? Why could he not rejoice in her happy prospects, and 
write to tell her so ? But weeks merged into mouths ere he 
could do this, and then he could not address herself, but 
wrote to Lord St. Clair, revealing his escape, his conceal- 
ment, and finall) the proniised success of his art, with a calm, 
affectionate message to Annie. The letter cost him a bitter 
struggle, and with feverish restlessness he awaited the reply ; 
but when none came, bitter thoughts possessed him. He 
believed himself entirely forgotten and uncared for by his 
friends , and every energy cramped (save for his art) by his 
spiritless belief, he determined to remain so, and shun alike 
England and her sons. It was his fate, he inwardly declared, 
and he must bend to it ; and thus, as is ever the case wuth 
these dark dreamers, he created for himself the lonely doom 
he imagined his destiny marked out. The death of his aged 


THE GROUP OF SCULPTURE. 


351 


relative, in the monastery of St. lago, placed a moderate 
fortune at his disposal, and enabled him still more success- 
fully and earnestly to pursue his art. For a time the excite, 
ment attendant on the creation of his group roused him from 
himself, but the reaction was plunging him still deeper into 
the dark abyss of misanthropy and gloom when his discovery, 
through his own beautiful work, the sudden and almost over- 
whelming happiness bursting through the darkness of his 
spirit, in the consciousness that Annie was free, that she had 
ever loved him, completely changed the current of his 
thoughts, and permitted him a realization of joy, before which 
the dark creed of destiny fled for ever. 

It is in a cheerful sitting-room of a picturesque dwelling 
on the banks of Keswick Lake, that our readers may once 
more look on Annie Grey, ere they bid her farewell — Annie 
Grey indeed she was not ; but there was little change visible, 
save that her fair cheek bore the rose, and her beautiful form 
the roundness of more perfect health, than when we last 
beheld her. The large French windows opened on a small 
but beautiful garden, where the taste of England and Italy 
was SO combined, as to render its flowers and statues the 
admiration of every beholder. The opposite window opened 
on a conservatory of beautiful exotics, and exquisite speci- 
mens of painting and sculpture adorned the room itself An 
uncovered harp tilled one corner, on which the evening sun, 
shining full from the stained glass of the western window, 
flung tints as bright and changing as those of the kaleidoscope. 
A hortus siccus^ opened on a group half arranged, was on a 
table, at which Lady Emily St. Clair was seated, and Annie 
was standing at her side, with a volume of poems in her 
hand 

“ You idle girl ! you would have found what I wanted in 
five minutes a lew years ago. What are you thinking about? 
Ah. liecrinald. you are just in time, or Annie’s restless- 
ness would have invaded your sanctum, depend upon 
it.” 

“And had 1 not cause? A whole hour, nearly two, after 
your promised time ; and your cheek pale, and your brow 
burning ! Dearest, do not let your art be dearer than your 
wife 

“Whntl iealous of all my marble figures, love? For 
shame !'' vep'lied her husband, playfully, twining his arm 
round her. and kissing her cheek ; “ but I will plead guilty 


352 


THE GROUP OP SCULPTURE. 


to fatigue to-night, and you shall cure me by my favourite 
song.” 

Annie flew to her harp, and De Vere. flinging Jiimself on 
an easy chair, drank in the sounds with an intensity of 
dtdigbt which he never believed that song could have had the 
power to produce. “ Yes!” he exclaimed, as her sweet voice 
ceased, what are palaces and their pleasures compared to an 
hour like this? There is, indeed, ‘no place like home;’ what, 
oil I what would the artist and the student be without 
it ?” 

“Why, how is this Signor Rinaldo? what extraordinary 
spell has been flung over you, so to change your opinion of 
a song that once you would not even hear?” laughingly 
exclaimed Lord St. Clair, springing from the balcony into the 
room. Good evening, Mrs. De Vere; I have some incli- 
nation to arrest you for using unlawful witchcraft on this 
gentleman, even as I once thought of seizing him for allowing 
you to die of grief for his loss, when he was all the time in 
life I” 

“ Guilty, guilty ; we both plead guilty,” replied Reginald, 
in the same tone ; “ but my guilt is of far deeper dye ; my 
Annie’s witchery has but thrown such a halo over my home, 
that all which speaks of its charm is as sweet to my ear as 
to my heart. I am changed, St. Clair, and not merely in 
loving a song I once despised,” he added, with much feeling, 
“ but in being enabled to trace a hand of love, where once 1 
beheld but remorseless fate ; and my wife has done this, so 
gently, so silently, that I guessed not her influence until I 
found myself joining her own lowly prayers, and believing in 
the same sustaining faith.” 

“And has she explained its mystery?” inquired liudj 
Emily, with earnest interest. 

“ No, dear friend ; nor do I need it now. The belief that 
a Goa of infinite love and compassion ordains all things, yet 
leaves us the perfect exercise of our free will, and in that 
freedom, and the acts thence ensuing, works out his divino 
decrees, constraining no man, yet bringing our most adverse 
wills to work out his heavenly rule — this is a belief that must 
be fclt^ it cannot be explained, and thrice blessed are thej or 
whom its unspeakable comfort is bestowed !” 


®|t Spirit jttf pg|t. 

FOUNDED ON A HEBREW APOLOGUE. 

“Let tLere be light!” the Omnific Word had spoken, and 
light was. Over the newly-created world the pure element 
rushed from the spiritual courts of the High Empyrean, 
where it had reigned from everlasting. In its subtle essence, 
its ethereal exhalations, fit only for the atmosphere of those 
angelic spirits, who, at the word of the Highest, took their 
appointed stations in the new-formed world. Radiance too 
glorious, too resplendent for mortal view, filled the illimitable 
space, uniting earth with heaven as by a cloud of glory. 
Where had been Chaos, circled with shapeless darkness, now 
revolved, in its vast flood of irradiating lustre, the new work 
of the Eternal. Thousands of radiant spirits floated to and 
fro on the refulgent flood. The dazzling iris of their wings, 
the music of their movements, filling space with beauty and 
with sound; while up, up from the lowest Heaven to the 
High Empyrean — from the young seraph to the mighty spirits 
nighest the Invisible Throne, whose resplendent presence 
dazzled even the purified orbs of their angelic brethren — up, 
through every heaven and every rank, sounded the glad 
hallelujahs of love and praise. 

At every word of the Highest, creation sprung. Darkness, 
borne back by the mighty torrent of effulgent light, would 
have passed annihilated from the face of the new-born world, 
but, shielded by angelic ministers, it lingered, in its new- 
appointed sphere, to do its destined bidding. A firmament of 
sapphire, stretched between the waters and the waters, veiling 
the glory of the spiritual heavens from the grosser earth. 
Land rose from the liquid deep. The rolling waters rushed 
impetuously to their destined boundaries, held there by the 
Omnific will- And over the land the creating Word went 
forth ; and, at once, the mountains raised their stupendous 
forms, crowned with imperishable verdure ; the valleys, and 
woods, and glens rose and sunk in their appointed rests ; and 
flowers, and trees, and streams, and thousand other charms of 


854 


THE SPIRIT OP NIGHT. 


Biglit, and sound, and sense, burst forth into perfected being 
Myriads of angels hovered round, visible tken in their beauty ; 
but now heard only in the sweet breath of the gentle flowers ; 
in the varied sounds of the forest trees as the wind floats by ; 
in the summer breeze, or the wintry storm ; in the musical 
gush of the silvery rill ; aye, and in the deep hush and calm 
of the evening hour, when nature herself, as conscious of 
their ministering presence, sinks into deep and spiritual 
repose. 

But not for the abode of angelic spirits was this lovely 
world. A new creation was to raise the voice of love and 
adoration ! and for such, the spiritual light enveloping the 
infant globe was too ethereal, too resplendent. Nought but 
the purified orbs of the angelic and archangelic hosts could 
gaze on its refined effulgence ; and, therefore, from the council 
of the Eternal went forth the decree : — 

“ Let there be two great lights to rule the earth, the one 
by day, and the one by night, and they shall rule times and 
seasons.” And as He spake it was. Instantaneously the 
minute particles of the ethereal essence formed into an orb 
of splendour, fraught with such power and glory, that the 
lustrous flood rushed back into the Heavenly Fount — earth 
needing it no more; — circled by a diadem of many-coloured 
light, extending in resplendent rays over the new-born world, 
infusing its golden glory over the azure heavens ; clouds, dyed 
with the brilliant tints of amethyst, and rose, and ruby, form- 
ed before him and faded into glory as He passed. Earth, 
through her ministering spirits of mount, and wood, and 
stream, and flower, sent up her thrilling song of thanksgiving, 
echoed and re-echoed by the myriads and myriads of angels 
peopling the spiritual courts. Heaven and Earth rejoiced. 
Increased and dazzling beauty enveloped the new creation. 
Luscious fragrance issued from the flowers ; their petals, 
adorned by their guardian seraphs, expanded to the glorious 
orb, and shone in his rays like gems. The Spirit of Hay, 
selected from the highest and purest order of angels, to renew 
and tend the beauteous work, ascended his throne in the 
burning centre, whence the effulgent rays emanate on earth, 
but on which no mortal eye can look ; and proudly and re- 
joicingly as a bridegroom coming forth from his chamber, as 
a youthful hero from his victorious career, he guided the 
glorious luminary on its resplendent course, joining his voice 
to the hallelujahs pealing around. 


THE SPxRiT OP NIGHT. 


355 


And in varied but equal beauty rose the second light ; but 
its guardian spirit, selected from the same pure and exalted 
ranks, looked on the effulgence of the Orb of Day, and 
beheld his brother spirit circled by glory more dazzling than 
his own His invisible throne was within the silver radiance 
of his orb. Light, ethereal and pure as the heavenly essence 
of which both sun and moon had been formed, enriched 
him ; less glittering, but equally resplendent. But a deep 
shadow stole over the exquisite colouring of the spirit’s 

wings. His voice of music refused to join the pealing 

hallelujahs. 

“Wherefore?” he exclaimed; and the troubled accents 
sounded through space, strangely and darkly falling on the 
full tide of song. “ Wherefore do two monarchs occupy one 
throne? Wherefore to me is given less than to my brother? 
I have loved, I have served as faithfully as he. Why, then, 
should I be second, and he the first ? Earth rejoices when 
he comes. Heaven greets him with songs of love. What 
need is there for me, unless to me the same is given ?” 

The hallelujahs ceased. A sudden silence, awful in its 

profoundness, sunk on the rejoicing myriads. The pure 

founts of ever-living light became obscured. Thunder rolled 
over the illimitable expanse. The superb radiance of the 
effulgent moon vanished, and, spreading far into the Empy- 
rean, became the glorious host of stars, each with its attend- 
ant spirit as it formed. Darkness clothed the complaining 
angel; the beautiful luminary given to his charge, seemed 
quivering and fading into space; while, still strong and rejoi- 
cing. the Orb of Day held on his victorious career. 

Prostrate and convulsed with remorseful anguish, the 
spirit sunk before the celestial hosts. He who had been of 
that favoured class to whom the ways as well as the works of 
the Highest were revealed, had fallen lower in intellect and 
love than the youthful seraph, whose task was only to worship 
and adore. Where could he hide himself from their search- 
ing orbs? Where fiv from the fiashing light that, as the 
thunder rolled, played round him, marking him disgraced and 
criminal? But Him whom he had offended, he loved as only 
Qiigels love. And so he welcomed that remorseful agony, 
and prayed, “ Have mercy. Father of all Beings! My Fa- 
ther, have mercy on me I” And out of that awful stillness 
issued a thrilling strain of gushing music — low, soft, spiritual 
—the murmured prayer, from countless myriads, for pardon 
16 


356 


THE SPIRIT OF NIGHT. 


foi* an errmg brother. The dimness fled from the founts of 
light. The thunder ceased ; the scorching lightnings blazed 
no longer. A mild effulgence circled the sorrowing spirit as 
he lay, burying his refulgent brow in the darkened iris of his 
wings. 

From the invisible throne of the Highest, the mightiest 
the best beloved, most favoured messenger of the Eternal 
the Spirit of Love, winged his downward flight, and on the 
instant, space became irradiated. New lustre spread over the 
vast courts of Heaven ; the richest harmonies attended every 
movement of his wings. Angels and archangels, seraphs and 
ministers, pressed forward as he passed, to bask in the won- 
drous beauty of his lustrous face, and raise anew the irrepres- 
sible burst of song. 

“ Spirit of Night, arise !” he said, and the repentant angel 
lifted up his brow once more in returning hope, so thrillingly 
that voice of liquid music foil ; arise, and list the irrevocable 
decree of the Eternal ! Because thou has envied the resplen- 
dence of the Spirit of Bay, the radiance of thine orb will 
henceforth be borrowed from His lustre ; and when yonder 
earth passes thee thou wilt stand, as now thou dost, deprived 
of thy glory, and eclipsed, either wholly or in part. Thou 
hast dared arraign the wisdom and the goodness of the High- 
est ; and though He pardons, yet must He chastise, lest others 
sin yet more. Yet weep not, repentant brother ! thy repining is 
forgiven, and thou too shalt reign a monarch in thy radiance ! 
Queen of the lovely night will thine orb be hailed ; the' tears 
of thy repentance shall be a reviving balm to all that lan- 
guish ; imparting consolation to the mourner, rest to the 
weary, soothing to the careworn, strength to the exhausted. 
Peace shall be thy whisper, and in thy kingdom of stillness 
and repose, breathe thrillingly the promise of Heaven, and its 
rest. Go forth, then, on thy mild and vivifying career. The 
Orb of Bay will do his work, and be hailed with rejoicing 
mirth ; but many a one shall turn to thee from him, and in 
the radiance of thy tears find consolation.” 

He spake : and behold ! the pale but lovely lustre in which 
the Orb of Night still shines flowed round her. The Spirit 
of Night resumed his silvery throne, and in the profound 
submissiveness of most perfect love entered upon his silent 
and beautiful career, circled by the glittering radiance of the 
attendant stars. Soon was revealed the benignant mercy of 
Ilia sentence. Even ere sin darkened the lovely earth, His 


THE SPIRIT OF NIGHT. 


357 


beauteous orb was hailed by all creation with rejoicing ; and 
when man fell, when labour and weariness, sickness and woe, 
obtained dominion, how soothing the consolation whispered 
by the Spirit of Night! Weeping oft at the remembrance of 
his own fault, the Spirit commiserates the tears of others, 
Floating over the earth, invisible, save through the exquisite 
beauty of his orb, and the thrilling thoughts of Heaven and 
immortality awakening in the soul, which, formed of kindred 
essence, becomes thus conscious of his presence, the Spirit 
sends his soft rays, formed from the liquid lustre of his tears, 
on all who need his pity and repose. By the couch of the 
sufferer — the side of the sorrowing — by the kneeling penitent 
— by the wakeful mourner — by the careworn and the weary — 
to the hut of the beggar as the palace of the king — he sends 
pity, and peace, and consolation. Nor does he sympathise 
with sorrow alone : the joy which, in the sunshine and midst 
the turmoil of the world, has agitated the soul even to pain, 
he softens into such deep calm, as to whisper of that Heaven 
whence alone the full bliss comes. Love, shrinking from the 
garish day, finds in his presence eloquence and voice. The 
poet, oppressed and suffering in the rich blaze of day, at night 
pours out his full soul in stirring words ; for, conscious of a 
spirit’s presence, the pressure of infinity is then less painful 
to be borne. The artist, does he dream of giving life to the 
vacant canvas, the senseless marble, or voice and sound to the 
rich harmonies for ever breathing in his ear — labours in toil, 
often in despondency, during the day, for Earth only is pre- 
sent then ; but when alone with his own soul and the holy 
night ; when the Spirit, visible either through his silvery tears, 
or in the rich beauty of his starry zone, penetrates his whole 
beinfic with his heavenly presence, then life is strong once 
more 1 The dream of Immortality on Earth, even as in 
Heaven, dashes down all earthly fears. The spark of the 
Deity in every soul is rekindled by the touch of its kindred 
essence, and Hope, and Truth, and Beauty start into enduring 
glory beneath the vivifying flash. 

Beautiful Spirit! such has been, and is, and will still be 
thy task. Over the earth thou floatest, an4 man, be he in 
gloom or gladness, aspiring or desponding, hails thee with 
rejoicing ; and even as the pale flowers drooping beneath the 
noontide heat, and the parched and languishing earth, so 
does he turn to thee for coolness and repose. Beautiful 
Spirit ! thou hast sinned and been forgiven — therefore wo rest 
on thee I 


|[e0lltttwits flf s ianiMtr. 

It was on a beautiful morning, in quite the beginning of May, 
that, leaving the Globe Hotel, on the Beacon Hill. Exmouth, 
I strolled forth at a very early hour, determining to ramble 
wherever chance might lead. There was no fear of my miss- 
ing any particularly lovely spot in following this determination. 
The very watering-places combine all the charms ot sea and 
country to an extent peculiar to this lovely county. Ten 
minutes suffice to bear the wanderer to such seeming solitude 
of hill and dale, and glen and wood — will scatter around him 
such a profusion of ever varying yet ever beautiful scenery, 
that it is difficult to believe that all those artificial luxuries 
and pleasures necessary to the trifler and the fashionist, would 
we seek them, are close at hand. 

Every season has its own charm in England. Even winter, 
in its stern, rude aspect, its brawling voice of winds and 
storms, has, in the deep, still haunts of nature, its own pecu- 
liar beauty. Spring, with its young fresh joyousness, its spark- 
ling glory of earth and sky — its gushing atmosphere ; for as 
the breeze comes laughing and dancing along, we can give it 
no other terra. Summer, with its still deeper feeling, as if 
the dancing light and glittering love of the youthful year had 
sobered into a being deeper, stronger, more fervid and intense. 
Then autumn, decking decay with such bright beauty, shed- 
ding a parting halo on the fading year; concentrating all of 
loveliness in that sweet, dreamy pensiveness, which, while it 
lingers almost mournfully on earth’s parting glories, looks 
through their passing light into their renovated being, reading 
in the death and resurrection of nature the spirit’s immor- 
tality. 

One charm, indeed, sp.^ing possesses beyond those of the 
ether seasons ; it is, that almost every hour of the day is 
equally delicious ; in the morning, noon, afternoon, or evening, 
we may come forth and make acquaintance with her in every 
variety of aspect, each one as lovely as the other. Evening 
indped is the hour of that deHcious musing wbiph, in the very 


RECOLLECTIONS OF A RAMBLER. 


359 


blesseilness of the present, uncoiiscioTisly recalls the loveliest 
images of the past, and adumbrates the future, by the thril- 
ling whisper of our immortal goal. It is then that, as Words- 
worth says — 

“We are laid asleep 
In body, and become a living soul.” 

But these are not the sensations of the morning; then 
life is infused with the present alone. We can neither re- 
call, nor think, nor hope ; we do but believe, and love, and feel, 
conscious only of the blessing of Existence, of the omnipo- 
tence of Love ! 

It was with all the elastic joyousness of such sensations I 
hastened up the Beacon Hill, pausing involuntarily on the top 
to gaze beneath me. There lay Old Ocean, slumbering in the 
early sunshine as a lake of molten gold, tinged here and there 
with the shadow of overhanging rocks, and ever and anon 
fringed with a snowy crest, as a passing breeze rocked the waves 
into heavier swell. The broad and graceful river, rushing 
boldly and proudly into its parent sea ; its undulating course 
visible for miles up the land ; its shores skirted with towns 
half buried in foliage.; churches, towers, and villages coming 
forth in the glowing light from their background of hills dark 
with, verdure ; headlands, bold, rugged, and broken into every 
diversity of form: Powderham’s castellated mansion glancing 
through magnificent plantations, with their glades and lawns 
of emerald issuing from the deeper shadows as jewels of the 
sunshine. Mamhead, just visible through its dark, dense 
woods ; an?* farther still in the distance, woody uplands and 
barren rocks towering above the broken summits of the head- 
lands, taking every grotesque form from the clouds lingering 
above them, and at length fading into ether, changing like 
phantasmagoria beneath the magic influence of light and 
shade, and mist and sun. 

My path now lay across one or two fields, inlaid with a 
perfect mosaic of gold, and white, and green, formed by the 
patches of grass, kingcup, and daisy, leading into those nar- 
row, luxuriant lanes, with their gurgling streamlets and clus- 
tering flowers which mark at once the county of Devon. 

The hedges rose high above my head, and from them 
sprung forth the oak, and elm, and beech, and ash, bearing the 
weight of centuries on their lofty trunks and far-spreading 
branches; the hawthorn, with its blossoms just tipping its 


360 


RECOLLECTIONS OP A RAMBLER. 


rich green as with a shower of snow ; and the holly standing 
forth, dark and stern, amid the more tender foliage of the 
early spring. Every field-gate or occasional break in the 
hedge disclosed a complete map of hill, and wood, and orchard ; 
on one side bounded by sea and sky, on the other stretching 
farther and farther inland, till hills met the sky, and seemed 
to close around the landscape. Every shade of green, from 
the darkest to the lightest, was visible in the tender foliage — 
some as if already clothed in the intenser hues of summer ; 
others so lightly, so delicately shaded, that their exquisite 
tracery was distinctly marked against the clear blue sky. 
The orchards already lay as patches of snow in their verdant 
dells, and primroses and violets by thousands clustered on the 
banks of the clear, trickling streamlet which skirted the deep 
green hedge as a fringe of silver. 

I do so love the primrose ; there is something so sad and 
pensive in her meek, pale flowers, gleaming forth as silent stars 
from their darkly-closing leaves, and bending over the laugh- 
ing waters as if their very mirth were sad to her. And the 
deep purple violet, shrouding itself in silence, yet seeming in 
its very scent, to smile and whisper joy. And the speedwell, 
with its full blue petals and delicate stems, which literally 
bend beneath their weight of blossoms, light and fragile as they 
are ; the aeep red campion, with its gorgeous clusters, looking 
proudly down on its humbler brethren, rejoicing in its lofty 
home, that it may tade un plucked upon its stem ; these and 
countless other flowers gemmed the hedge as a very garniture 
of love. 

There was no sound save vhe delicious music of the fresh 
spring breeze, as it wantoned with the glistening leaves, or 
played with the gushing waters, inciting them to break in tiny 
waves against the hedge ; and the rich thrilling melody of the 
happy birds, calling to each other from tree to tree, or send- 
ing forth such a gush of song, such a trilling flow of rapture, 
that their slender throats seemed quivering with the effort ; 
then would come silence, as startled and hushed by their own 
joy ; and then a low twittering, with perhaps the distant call 
of the lonely cuckoo, and a burst of melody again. 

After rambling amid such scenes and sounds for about 
two miles, a thick grove of lofty trees, interspersed with 
thatched roofs, ivy-clad and smoke-dyed walls, and chimneys 
of every architecture, marked its termination. The lane nar- 
rowed, and hastening onwards, a rustic gate opened into an old 


Pi-ECOLLECTIONS OF A RAMBLER. 


3G1 


ehurcliyard. surrounding a village cliurch of sucb extreme old 
age, and so picturesque, that it sent me back in fancy centu- 
ries at once. There was the low, square belfry, indented and 
fractured, with lichen, and moss, and flowering weeds spring- 
ing from every crevice ; the long and rambling choir, roofed 
with copper; the slender buttresses ; the sinall-paned windows, 
some of Saxon, some of Tudor architecture; the large square 
perch or entrance with its grotesque carvings, that could only 
belong to the middle ages. The very trees, massive alike in 
root, and trunk, and branch ; yews so dark and thick, they 
Bccmed in the distance more as solid masonry than trees — 
looked as if they had stood there grim guardians of the holy 
dead for centuries ; and grassy graves and quaint old tombs 
so battered with age and atmosphere as wholly to obliterate 
their inscriptions — though some bore date as far back as 1500 
— strewed the ground, so closely congregated that there was 
no space for a foot between. 

The very birds seemed imbued with the spirit of the place, 
for they were silent, either flying noiselessly over the graves, 
or winging their way to less sacred groves. A sudden sound 
awoke me from my musing, and transported me at once from 
past to present; a joyous peal burst forth from the old belfry, 
and a kindly voice accosted me with — Maybe you’d like to 
walk in, sir, and see the old place % You’ll ha’ time to look 
round ye afore the wedding party comes; and if not, there’ll 
be time enow during the service.” 

The offer was accepted so eagerly as to delight my old 
guide ; for if one place in the country be more interesting 
to me than any other, it is an old village church, so buried 
in its own beautiful site that the roar of the railroad can 
never reach it ; where we can stand still and breathe, apart 
from the rush and the turmoil, and the haste, still pressing 
Cuward — onward, in the vain strife for man’s intellect to keep 
pace with the giant he has raised, which is now the constant 
accompaniment of the neighbourhood of towns. The interior 
betrayed still greater age than the exterior ; the windows were 
painted rudely but gaudily, throwing streams of coloured 
light where the early sunshine fell, and leaving the remainder 
of the interior in that dim twilight so in unison with holiness 
and age. An antique shrine, adorned with most grotesque, and 
to me incomprehensible carvings, ran between the nave and 
chancel. The nave, fitted up as a Protestant place of wor^ 
eliip, with pews and seats, looked more modern than the chan* 


362 


RECOLLECTIONS OF A RAMBLER. 


cel ; though the very black oak of its furniture gave it a ven 
erable appearance, and seemed to mark its date as among the 
earliest of the reformed churches, while the dilapidated pave- 
ment arrd crumbling seats of the chancel spoke of an age still 
farther back. The front was roughly hewn out of a single 
stone. I was intently engaged in endeavouring to decipher 
the inscriptions and dates on the stone flooring, which ap 
peared entirely made up of graves, when the entreaty of the 
old clerk that I would withdraw into a pew, as the wedding 
party were approaching, most abruptly scared away all my 
anthjuarian lore, and transported me very unwillingly, if the 
truth must be told, to the contemplation of that common every- 
day occurrence, a modern wedding. 

But one glance at the group, consisting of only six or 
seven persons, riveted my interest. In my whole London 
career I had never seen such a face of intellect, and soul and 
beauty as that of the bride. Whether it was the contrast of 
such youthful grace and loveliness with the stern old shrine 
around, or the excessive agitation of the bridegroom, and the 
almost extraordinary self-possession of the bride, I know not ; 
but no marriage ceremony ever affected me as this. Self- 
possessed as she was, there was no absence of feeling; her 
cheek was perfectly colourless, and at times there seemed a 
slight tremulous motion of the lips, as if the effort to retain 
her composure was too painful to be continued, and only per- 
severed in for him. His responses were wholly inaudible ; 
hers so distinct and thrilling, they affected me almost to tears. 
The clergyman himself, though young, and, by his gay careless 
face and manner, the only one who did not well assimilate 
with the scene, became gradually impressed with its unusual 
solemnity. The embrace with which, at the conclusion of the 
ceremony, the bridegroom folded the bride to his heart, was so 
full of passionate feeling, of such suppressed yet intense emo- 
tion, even I could scarcely witness it unmoved, and it com- 
pletely checked the customary joyous greetings of their com- 
panions. 

I followed them almost unconsciously from the church, 
saw them enter the two carriages waiting for them outside 
the little gate, and remained leaning on a tombstone over- 
looking the road, long after they had disappeared. My reve- 
rie was interrupted by a courteous address from the young 
clergyman, who, having noticed my attendance in the church, 
volunteered the information which I so much desired. 


RE( OLLECTIONS OP A RAMBLER. 


3G3 


Vierre Laval, the only son of a very rich planter in Mar- 
tinique, having received the best education which an alter- 
nate residence in France and England could bestow, returned 
to his father only to feel that a residence in Martinique was 
about the most miserable thing that could happen to him, and 
so again made his appearance in England. He sought no 
profession, because he had no need to do so, his father’s pos- 
sessions being immense. Joining in the very best society, in 
which a handsome face, elegant address, and highly- cultivated 
mind gave him many advantages, he became acquainted with 
the reigning beauty of the season, Helen Campbell. Now 
Pierre had a decided aversion to cried-up beauties, and so he 
resolved that, however she might conquer others, she should 
never obtain any power over him. It is one thing to make a 
wise resolution, and another to keep it. It so happened that 
Helen Campbell possessed none of the repulsive attributes of an 
acknowledged beauty. She was in truth much more lovely than 
he had anticipated, but it was the intellectuality of her sweet 
face which was its peculiar charm. She was frank, truthful, 
gay, — nay, almost wild in her joyousness ; and, moreover, pos- 
sessed the spell of one of the sweetest voices, either in speech 
or song, which he had ever heard. Pierre struggled a long 
time, but it would not do ; he was fairly conquered : and then 
for the first time, he imagined himself wanting in every qua- 
lity likely to make that love reciprocal, and, by sudden silence 
and reserve, was in a fair way of actually creating the evil ho 
dreaded, had not a mutual friend opened his eyes, and with 
sudden desperation he urged his suit, and discovered, to hib 
inexpressible happiness, that his love was returned. 

For a brief period all was joy. Pierre had written to hib 
father, and did not harbour a single doubt as to his residence 
being permanently fixed in England, although Helen hao 
made no such condition to his acceptance. Anxiously tht 
arrival of the packet was anticipated ; but instead of the an- 
swer expected, it brought news so overwhelming, that the un- 
fortunate Pierre was at first verging on distraction. 

Monsieur Laval was almost irretrievably ruined ; a revoh 
in the slave population of the island had taken place, and his 
extensive plantations were burnt to ashes. Other heavy 
losses had congregated round him ; and what with these mis- 
fortunes, and having been severely wounded in the revolt, his 
neaitn appeared rapidly failing. Panic and confusion still 
reigned ; but the friend who wrote, expressed the hope tnat, 


364 


RECOLLECTIONS OP A RAMBLER. 


when all was quiet again, the Laval losses might not involve 
such utter ruin as at present appeared. Nothing was so ear- 
nestly desired, in fact, so indispensable, as the immediate 
presence of Pierre. 

For some time the young man strove in vain to reduce his 
thoughts to order ; and at length, hardly knowing what he 
did, he sought his betrothed, told her all, and with a desperate 
effort, offered to resign all his pretensions to her hand ; he 
was a ruined man — must labour for years in Martinique : how 
could he ask his Helen to leave her luxurious home, country, 
friends, all, to bear with poverty and misery in a distant 
colony for him ? She heard him quietly to the end, and then 
clasping his hand, vowed nothing should part them. She was 
his by the most holy of all ties — ^mutual love and truth ; and 
no persuasion, no effort, could turn her from his side. In 
vain her mother and all her friends seconded Laval’s appeal, 
urging the madness of the sacrifice. Helen’s only reply was, 
“ Had the voice of man united us, would you thus persuade 
me? Would you not bid me follow my husband through 
weal and through woe? And shall I do less now, because 
freedom is in my power? I could desert him if I chose. 
No, no, mother, you have other children, who will be to you 
all I have been. Pierre has but me,” and no subsequent per- 
suasion had power to shake her resolution. It was, however, 
thought advisable that Pierre should seek Martinique alone ; 
and that when affairs were a little quiet, he should either re- 
turn for her, or she should go to him. But how could she 
join him, an unprotected girl, in a strange land ? She saw 
that he hesitated to speak the only means, and so spoke them 
for him : “ Grive me the sanctity, the protection of your name, 
my Pierre, and then what tongue dare cast aspersions on a 
wife who joins her husband? If the day which unites us, 
must also bid us part, let it be so ; but save me, as your wife, 
from attentions and notice, and persuasions which may be 
forced upon me.” 

Pierre’s first answer was a wild passionate embrace ; his 
next, as passionate a burst of sorrow, that it should be his 
doom to banish her to a home so little congenial to her taste, 
as the burning climate would be to her health. And it was 
iong ere she could soothe or chide him into composure ; for the 
more brightly shone forth her unselfish love, the more bitterly he 
felt the extent of sacrifice she made. 

Helen had to endure a very tempest of opposition and 


RECOLLECTIONS OF A RAMBLER. 


365 


upbraiding as to her romantic far-fetched folly ; but hers was 
not a mind to change or waver, when feeling and principle had 
alike dictated her resolution. 

Pierre was to join his ship at Falmouth ; and yearning for 
the quiet only found amid the repose of nature, Helen pre- 
vailed on her mother to reside for the next few months in 
Devonshire. Their bridal I had witnessed ; and when I heard 
that the afternoon of that same day Pierre Laval was to part 
from his Helen for an indefinite period, that when united by 
the holiest of ties, made one for ever, but a few troubled hours 
were left them together, I no longer wondered at the emotion 
I had beheld. 

Often and often has the vision of that morning haunted 
me with the vain longing to know if indeed that unworldly 
love has been blessed as, it deserved, and when those loving 
and aching hearts did meet again. For years that olden 
shrine returned to me, as a dream of the far past in itself, 
blended with all the griefs and hopes of human hearts in the 
present ; and never can I recall the old altar to my mind with- 
out beholding in fancy the sweet shadowy form of Helen 
Campbell, and the suppressed but terrible emotion of her 
Pierre, 


"dtast t|ir iaaii ujon dialers; s|aU fin'u 

it afttr mans Jjags.” 

^'WVy, "Willie, what is the matter?” inquired Edward 
jjangley, entering his father’s office one evening after business 
hours, and finding its sole tenant, a boy of fourteen or fifteen, 
leaning both arms on one of the high desks, and hiding his 
face within them, whilst his slight figure shook with uncon- 
trolh'ble sobs. ‘‘ And how came that drawer open ?” he con- 
tinued, more sternly, perceiving a bureau drawer half open, 
so f^s to display its glittering contents, which looked dis- 
turbed. “ I hope you have not been doing anything wrong, 
Willie” 

“ Oh, sir, indeed — indeed I have not ! Count the money, 
Mr. Ed.vard; pray count it; see that it is all right, or I can 
never hold up my head again. The temptation was misery 
enough,” returned the boy, as well as his sobs would permit, 
and displaying such a countenance of suffering, as to enlist all 
Edward’s sympathy at once. 

But, my good boy, what could have tempted you? You 
seem so to feel the enormity of the sin, that I cannot imagine 
what thought came into your head.” 

“ I only thought of my poor father, sir. Oh, Mr. Edward, 
he is in prison, and my mother is too ill to work ; and she 
and my poor little sisters are starving,” he replied, bursting 
again into tears. “ I did not know what to do to help them ; 
I give them all I earn, but that is so very little it only gives 
them a meal now and then ; and then, when I saw that drawer 
accidentally left open, and remembered twelve pounds, only 
twelve pounds, would get my father out of prison, and he 
could work for us again, the horrid thought came into my head 
to take them ; they would never be missed out of so many ; and 
I had them in my hand. But then I thought what could I tell 
them at home ? It would break my poor mother’s heart to think 
her Willie was dishonest; she could better bear hunger and 
grief than that, sir ; and I knew I could not hide it from her ; 
and so I dashed them back ! They seemed to scorch me ( 
Oh, Mr. Edward, indeed, indeed I speak the truth !” 


367 


“cast thy bread upon the waters.” 

Edward did believe him, and he told him so. There wa.s 
little need to speak harshly ; the boy’s own conscience had 
been his judge. To satisfy him, however, he counted the 
money, found it correct, and after talking to him a little while, 
kindly yet in.jnessively, promised to do what he could for hia 
father, and left him, indelibly impressing that evening upon 
Willie’s mind, by never reverting to it again. 

The tale, which his inquiries elicited, w'as a very common 
cnj. Willie’s father had been an artificer in one of the man- 
ufacturing towns ; but too eager for advancement, he impru- 
dently threw up his situation and tried independent business. 
Matters grew worse and worse ; his family increased and his 
means diminished. Hearing of an excellent opening at New- 
York. for an artificer like himself, he worked day and iiiglit 
to obtain sufficient means, to transport himself and family 
across the Atlantic, and support them till a business could be 
established. H.s wife ably aided him. when unhapj ily he was 
tempted to embark all his little savings in one of the bubbles 
of the day, which he was confidently assured would be so 
succes.sful as to permit his embarking for America at once, 
and so seize the opening offered. Few speculators had, 
perhaps, a better excuse ; but fortune did not favour him more 
than others ; it failed, and he was ruined. Three months 
afterwards he was thrown into prison for the only debt he had 
ever incurred, and though he had friends to persuade him to 
his ruin, he had none to liquidate his debt. His wife’s health, 
already overworked, sunk under privation and sorrow ; and 
though she toiled even from her fevered pallet, her feeble 
earnings were not sufficient to give her children bread. 

Edward Langley was a creature of impulse ; but in him 
impulse was the ofepring of high principle, and, therefore, 
though the following it often caused him unlooked-for annoy- 
ance, it never led him wrong ; and Willie’s tale called forth 
sympathies impossible to be withstood. 

Edward,” said one of his numerous sisters one evening, 
about three weeks afterwards, as they were sitting at tea — a 
meal which, bringing them all together, was universally 
enjoyed ; “ what have you done with grandpapa’s birthday 
present ? You were to do so many things with that money ; 
and I have not heard you speak of it since my return.” 

“ Because wonderful things have occurred since you left, 
Fanny,” said another slily. He is going to accompany Mr. 
Morison’s family to Italy and Paris ; and bring us such splen 


368 “ CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS.” 

did presents. His fair Julia cannot go without binij and li« 
has promised to join them.” 

•• Wrong, Miss Ellen, I am not going,” was the reply, with 
rather more brusquerie than usual. 

“ Why, have you quarrelled ?” 

“ Not exactly.” 

“ But she will be otfended, Ned ; I am sure I should he.” 

“ No, you would not, Anne, if you knew my reasons.’ 

What are they, Edward, dear? Do tell me, I am so 
curious.” 

“ Of course, or you would not he a woman !” 

Against this all his sisters expostulated at once ; and even 
his mother expressed curiosity, adding, that he had talked of 
this continental trip so long, and with so much glee, it muot 
be a disappointment to give it up. 

“ It is ; but I do not regret it.” 

“ But you must have a reason.” 

“ The very best of all reasons ; I cannot afford it.” 

“ Come to me for the needful, Edward,” said his father. 
‘‘ I cannot give you luxuries ; but this is for your improve- 
ment.” 

“Thank you most heartily, my dear father, but I am, 
rather I was, richer than any of you know. I earned so 
much for my last engraving.” 

“And you never told us,” said his mother and sisters, 
reproachfully. 

“ I did not, because it was already appropriated. I want- 
ed exactly that sum to add to my grandfather’s gift ; and 
that was what I worked so hard for.” 

“ To purchase some bridal gift,” said Fanny, archly. 

“ No, Fan ; I never mean to purchase love.” 

“ But if the lady requires to be so conciliated ?” 

“ Then she is not worth having.” 

“ Of course not,” rejoined Anne. “ But come, Edward, 
you have never kept anything from us before. What is this 
mystery ?” 

“ Out with it,” laughingly pursued Ellen. “ Julia Mori 
son will not thank you for preferring anything to accompany 
ing her, I can tell you ; so, as Anne says, what is this 
mystery ?” 

“No mystery at all, girls. You will all be disappointed 
when I tell you ; so you had better let it alone.” 

But beset on all sides, even by his father and mother. 


‘’CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS.” 369 

Edward told the simple truth, which our readers no doub’ 
have already guessed. His money had been applied in re 
leasing Willie’s father from prison; restoring his mother t( 
health, by giving her and her children nourishing food ; secur 
ing a passage for them all to New- York, and investing tht 
trifling surplus for their use on their arrival. He told hi.^^ 
tale hurriedly, as if he feared to be accused of folly, and his 
father did somewhat blame him. He was provoked that the 
little scheme of pleasure and improvement, which Edward 
had anticipated so many weeks, should be frustrated ; and 
annoyed that he should be disappointed, though the disap- 
pointment was perfectly voluntary. How could he tell that 
the man’s story was true? How was he sure the money 
would produce the good effect he hoped ! He must say he 
thought it a pity, a very great pity ; a visit to Paris would be 
so improving ; Mr. Morison’s family such a desirable connec- 
tion — and other regrets, which, without being a very worldly 
parent, were not perhaps unnatural. 

“ My dear father,” was Edward’s earnest and affectionate 
rejoinder, “ do not be vexed for my sake. A visit to the 
Continent would no doubt have been improving ; but t will 
work doubly hard in dear old England, and that, though it 
may not be as much pleasure, will be just as serviceable. 
With regard to Miss Morison,” his cheek slightly flushed, “if 
her affections are only to be secured by being constantly at 
her side, and always playing the lover, there could be no hap- 
piness in a nearer connection for either. A separation for 
three or four months can surely have no effect on real regard, 
and I am quite willing to subject both myself and J ulia to 
the ordeal. As to not being sure of doing the good I hope — 
who can be ? I do believe that poor fellow’s story, I confess, 
and strongly believe he will do well ; but I do not mean to 
give the subject another thought, except to work the 
harder. The money is as much gone as freely given, and I 
expect as little reward as if I had thrown it on the 
waters — ” 

“ Where thou shalt find it after many days,” continued his 
mother, so affectionately and approvingly, that Edward threw 
his arm round her and kissed her tenderly. “You have 
done right, my dear boy; and if Julia Morison does not 
think so, she is not worthy your love.” 

How quick is woman’s, above all, a mother’s penetration. 
From the first allusion to Miss Morison in the preceding con- 


370 


' cast thy bread upon the waters.’ 


Yersation, she knew that something had occurred between 
them to annoy, if it did not wound her son • and the moment 
she heard the story she guessed the actual fact. Perhaps her 
penetration in this instance was aided by previous observa- 
tion. She had never liked Miss Morison, desirable as from 
\^ordly motives the connection might be. Edward, youth-like, 
had been captivated by her beauty and vivacity, and grati- 
6cd by her very marked preference for himself. 11 is com- 
plete unconsciousness that he really was the handsomest and 
most engaging young man of the town of L , by depriv- 

ing him of all conceit, increased Miss Julia’s fascination Mr. 
Morison was member for the county, and had made himself 
universally popular ; and certainly took marked notice of 

Edward. The good people of L , were too simple-minded 

to discover that their member’s attractions were merely graces 
of manner ; and that he noticed Edward only because he was 
perfectly secure that his daughter would never do such a 
foolish thing as to promise her hand to the son of a country 
attorney, however agreeable he might be. 

Edward’s wish to accompany them to the Continent met 
with decided approval. Mr. Morison thought the young man 
would save him a great deal of trouble, as a kind of gen- 
tleman valet, without a salary; and Miss Julia was delighted 
at this unequivocal proof of his devotion, and at the amuse- 
ment she promised herself in playing off her country beau on 
the Continent, his simplicity being the shield to cover her 
manoeuvres ; besides, he would be such an excellent pis aller^ 
that she need never be without a worshipper. 

That such a person could appreciate Edward’s real cha- 
racter, or enter into his motives for, and his disappointment 
in, not accompanying her was impo.'^sible. For regret, even 
for anger, he had prepared himself, nay, might have been 
disappointed had she evinced no emotion ; but for the cold 
sneer, first of doubt, then of unequivocal contempt, which 
was her sole rejoinder to his agitated confes.sion, he was not 
prepared, and it chilled his very heart. Still he tried to 
deceive himself, and believe that all she said of benevolence, 
disinterestedness, and a long et-cetera was the sympathy he 
yearned for ; but the tone and manner with which she inform- 
ed her father in his presence of his change of purpose, and its 
praiseworthy cause, could not, even by a lover more infatuate d 
than Edward, have been misunderstood ; his spirit rose, and 
with it his self-respect. He said very little, but that little 


CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS. 


371 


(C 


sonvinced both Julia and her father that he was not quite tho 
simpleton which they had supposed him. 

He left them, wounded to the core ; to his warm, generous 
nature, worldliness was abliorrent even in a man, and in a 
woman it seemed to him something so unnatural, so revolting, 
that it dispersed at once the bright creation of his enthusi* 
astic fancy, and displayed Miss Morison almost in her true 
character. 

Still, notwithstanding all this pain and disappointment, 
Edward never once regretted the impulse he nad followed ; 
and when, about six or seven months afterwards, he received 
the most grateful letters from Willie and his father, inform- 
ing him that the opening offered, though attended with many 
difficulties, promised fair, he felt the sacrifice was more than 
recompensed, and from that hour never thought of it himself 
again. But his assertion, that he would work the harder to 
make up for those continental advantages which he had lost, 
was no idle boast ; he did so well, that even his father forgot 
his vexation; and his industry united with great personal 
economy, enabled him to give his sisters richer and more 
useful presents than the bijouterie which he had laughingly 
promised to bring them from France. 

The marriage of Miss Julia Morison with some foreign 
Count, before six months elapsed, had happily no effect on 
Edward’s equanimity ; it might, nay, it did cause a transient 
pang but he recovered it much sooner than his father did the 
loss of so desirable a connection. 

•‘Never mind it, sir,” was Edward’s laughing entreaty; 
“ I would rather earn my own independence, and make a con- 
nection through my own exertions than by the richest marriage 
I could make.” 

That’s just like your mother, boy,” said his father, some- 
what pettishly, “ as if all depended on one’s self” 

“ Thank you for the likeness, father. When I can bring 
you a daughter to be to me what my mother is to you, I shall 
have formed a desirable connection, though my wife be not 
set in gold.” 

And this even his father acknowledged, when two years 
afterwards. Edward married the daughter of their vicar, who 
proved in his own person that influence is not always insepa- 
rable from wealth, but may be found with worth as well. 
Time rolled on ; twenty, thirty years. In the multitude of 
great and trifling events, which make up the sum of human 


872 ‘-CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS.” 

life, during those years Edward Langley had so entirely for 
gotten the generous deed, of his early youth, that he would 
have found it difficult to recall even the name of Willie’s 
parents. His perseverance and talent had been crowned with 
such success, that when only eight-and-twenty he was taken 
into partnership by one of the first engravers of the metropolis. 
For twenty more years the business so fiourished as to make 
all the principals very wealthy men ; and Edward looked for- 
ward in two or three more years to resign in favour of his son, 
and retire himself from active business. He had never been 
ambitious, and a series of domestic trials in the loss of six 
children out of nine, all at that most interesting age when 
childhood is giving place to youth, caused him to turn with 
clinging love to those who remained, longing more to enjoy 
an Englishman’s home than to continue amassing wealth. 

Grreatly against his wishes and advice, engagements and 
speculations had been entered into by the firm to an immense 
extent, more especially with establishments abroad. The dis- 
honesty of distant agents, and the careless supineness, if not 
equal dishonour, of one of the principals at home, occasioned 
ruin to all, of course including Langley, though he had been 
most unjustifiably kept in ignorance of the real extent of their 
speculating schemes. Yet his high integrity enabled him to 
bear up against this sudden change of circumstances with 
more fortitude than any of his companions. 

His wife’s little property had never been touched, and he 
was therefore enabled to retire to a very small cottage in 
Cheshire, which soon displayed the refined taste and artistic 
skill of its gentle-minded inmates, to an extent that complete- 
ly cmcealed their very humble means. Not that they were 
ashamed of their poverty ; but the same self-respect that 
prompted their horror of all pretension, and resolution to live 
strictly within their means, threw a comfort and refinement 
around and within their lowly home; which the wealthiest 
might have envied. 

For himself, Edward Langley would have been as happy 
as in the height of his prosperity ; but he could not help feel- 
ing a very pardonable pang at this sad change in the prospects 
of his children. His son, emulating his firmness, sought and 
obtained an excellent situation in a thriving engraving e tab- 
lishment in Edinburgh, where his father’s name and character 
spoke for him more forcibly than the highest premium. It 
was on Helen Langley the blow had fallen heaviest ; the only 


“cast rHY BREAD UPON THE WATERS.-’ 373 

3ne of Ills daughters who had reached the age of nineteGii (for 
Fanny was still a child), frail, delicate in seeming as a beauti 
ful flower. She had been nursed in luxury and affection, and 
guarded from even the approach of a storm; the deserved 
darling of all who knew her, rich and poor, her parents’ love 
for her amounted almost to idolatry. Engaged to the son of 
one of her father’s partners, then studying as a physician, a 
bright and happy future shone before, them, when the thunder- 
bolt fell before either had seen a cloud. George Ashley was 
summoned from Paris just as his diploma was obtained, and 
he was weaving fairy dreams of a speedy union with his 
Helen ; recalled, not as he believed, still to study and gradu- 
ally attain eminence, but to give up all ambitious dreams, and 
work as a general practitioner for actual subsistence. To 
marry before he had even the prospect of a connection and em- 
ployment was absolute madness; to live any distance from 
Helen he felt was quite as impossible ; so he settled himself 
in the old town of Chester, about three miles from her home, 
and for her sake exerted himself more than he had once be- 
lieved was in his nature. At first, youth and excitement 
beheld only the brighter side ; but after six months’ trial, so 
endless and little remunerating seemed his toil, that he sunk 
into the deepest despondency, which neither Mr. and Mrs. 
Langley’s kind advice, nor Helen’s sweet counsels could 
remove. 

Fearfully would Mr. Langley look on his darling, dreading 
that this constant pressure of anxiety and suspense would be 
as fatal to her as disease had been to her sisters ; but though 
more serious than had been her disposition before, it was not 
the seriousness of gloom, but rather of a firm yet gentle spirit- 
forming internally some resolution which required thought 
and time for development. Her smile was as joyous, her voice 
as gleeful, as in happier years ; her pursuits continued with 
the same zeal, if not with deeper earnestness. To persuade 
her to annul her engagement never entered either parent’s 
mind, but the long vista of dreary years which they believed 
must intervene ere it could be fulfilled, was literally their 
oniy thought of anxious and unmitigated gloom. 

‘‘Give me up, Helen! T have no right to fetter your 
young life with an engagement which heaven only knows when 
we shall fulfil,” passionately exclaimed young Ashley, about 
seven months after their misfortunes. “ Your sweet face, and 
sweeter temper, and lovely mind must win you a position in 


374 


CAST TIIY BREAD UPON THE WATERS. 


life far higher than I can ever offer. You were only seen at 
the ball the other night to be admired.” 

“ That unfortunate ball ! I only went to gratify papa ' 
and you are jealous, George, that your poor Helen was ad- 
mired.” 

“No, Helen, no ! I gloried in it; for I knew you were 
mine, mine in heart, faith, all but name. But then I thought 
how selfish, how utterly selfish I was still to claim you ; to 
behold you wearing out your young life in all the sickness of 
hope deferred ; when, by resigning you, you might be rich, 
admired, followed, occupy the station you deserve, and — ” 

“ Be very happy, dearest George ! This is a strange mood,” 
said she, half reproachfully, half playfully. “ Come, send it 
away, for it is not like you. I am very sorry I cannot oblige 
you ; but as I consider myself as much yours as if the sacred 
words had actually been said, you may divorce me if you will, 
but I will never give you up.” 

“ Helen, darling Helen ! forgive me,” he replied, his re- 
pentance as impetuous as all his other feelings. “ Oh ! if you 
would be but mine at once, I am sure I should succeed ; with 
such a comforter, such a cheerer, work would be welcome. I 
would never despond again, dearest ; loving as we do, why 
should we not wed at once? We must then do well.” 

“ Must do well because we love, George? Yes, and so we 
shall, but not if we wed now. Ah. now you look reproachfully 
again. Dearest, you know T would not shrink from any hard- 
ship shared with you. 1 will work with you, work for you, if 
needed ; but. young as we both are, is it not better to work 
apart a few years, that we may rest together ? Think what 
five years may do for both, it may be less ; I put it only to the 
extent. You are succeeding, and will succeed still more, the 
more you are known ; but had you a wife and an establish- 
ment to support now, even with my very hardest exertions, 
we could not keep free from debt ; and love, potent as it is, 
could not then guard sorrow from our dwelling. When 
wedded, if unlook d-for misfortunes come, we will bear them, 
and comfort and strengthen each other; but would it be right, 
would it be wise to invite them by a too early marriage? My 
own dear George, let us work while we have youth and hope, 
and trust me we shall be very happy yet.” 

It was scarcely possible to remain unconvinced by such 
fond reasoning ; but still Ashley referred with deep despond* 
ency to the long, long interval which must elapse ere that happi- 
ness could be obtained. 


375 


‘^CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS.” 

'■ Not SO long as you fancy, George. I never mean to be 
a rich man’s wife, though you invited me to be so just now 
I do not even intend to wait for comforts, but only just for 
tliat competency which will prevent those evil spirits, care and 
irritation to enter our home ; and to forward this, listen to 
my plan, dearest George.” And with some little tremor, for 
she dreaded his disapproval, she told him that she had accept- 
ed an engagement as governess, in a family at Manchester ; a 
Dr. Murray, who was a widower, with four or five children; 
she had been mentioned by a mutual friend, and the Doctor 
was so pleased with Mrs. Norton’s account, that he agreed 
even to give the high salary Helen re(][uired, without seing her. 
He had said that his mother, who lived with him, was too in- 
firm to bear his children much with her, and he therefore 
wanted more from his governess than merely to teach ; he was 
quite willing to pay for it, but a lady he must have.” 

“ To bear with all his whims and fancies ; to be tormented 
with spoiled children ; put up with the old woman’s infirmities ; 
be insulted by pampered servants. Helen, you shall not go !” 
exclaimed George. 

“ Now, George, don’t be foolish. I do not expect one of 
these evils ; and if I meet with them I can bear them, with 
such a hope before me,” she continued, fondly looking in his 
face. 

‘‘ But governesses are so insulted, so degraded.” 

Not insulted, if they respect themselves; not degraded, 
if those they love do not think so. But perhaps, George, you 
are too proud to marry a governess.” 

A passionate reproach was his reply. 

“ Well then, love, listen to me a little longer. Mamma 
still means to allow me enough for my quiet dress, so that I 
can put by every shilling that I earn ; and only think what 
that may come to in a few years. Then I have a reason for 
choosing Manchester as a temporary home ; you know I can 
draw, but you do not know that I can design — William took 
so much pleasure in teaching me — and, in a manufacturing 
town like Manchester, I may not only be able to use this know- 
ledge, but perhaps gradually get introductions which will allow 
my successful pursuit of the art even as — as your wife, dearest 
George; and then, w^hat with our mutual economy and mutual 
savings beforehand, and mutual work afterwards — oh, our 
future will shine as bright as it did before this storm !” 

“ God for ever bless you, Helen, my own darling ! you are 


376 


CAST TIIY BREAD UPON THE WATERS. 


U 


indeea my best hope, my best comforter already,” murmuicd 
George, half choked with strong emotion, which he tried to 
conceal by pressing her to his bosom, and kissing her cheek. 
“ How can your parents part with you, and what will drive 
away my fits of gloom, when I cannot come to you for com- 
fort?” 

‘‘ Hope !” was her instant reply, in a tone so glad, so thrill- 
ing, that it pervaded his whole being ever afterwards like a 
spell. “ Think, dearest George, of the hundreds who have to 
labour on, through lonely years, uncheered by either love or 
hope ; who must work, wearily and unceasingly, only for means 
of existence. We have health and youth and love, and, above 
all, mutual faith to sustain us ; and therefore we must be happy. 
You do not know how powerful is a woman’s wilL ’ 

Not more so than man’s,” replied Ashley, more cheer- 
fully than he had yet spoken. “ Helen, you have shamed me. 
I will become more worthy of such love.” 

Helen looked very much as if she thought that was impos- 
sible, but she did not say so. 

It was no light task this gentle girl had undertaken. Hope- 
fully as she had spoken and felt, her resolution had neither 
been formed nor matured without suffering, nor had it been 
the least portion of the trial to win over her parents to her 
wishes ; but the wisdom of her plan was so evident, that they 
conquered all selfish feeling for their child’s sake, and tried 
to be comforted by Mrs. Norton’s assurance, that in Dr. Mur- 
ray’s family Helen would be as comfortable as she could be 
away from home. 

And so she was. In fact so kindly was she welcomed and 
treated, that she could scarcely understand it. Dr. Murray 
was a man in reality under fifty, but looking much older, from 
a life of some hardships and much labour, the fruits of which 
he now enjoyed in the possession of a comfortable income. 
His manner, in general blunt and rough, always softened to- 
wards Helen, whom he ever addressed with such respect, as 
well as kindness, that all George’s terror of her encountering 
insolence very speedily dispersed. Mrs. Murray had evidently 
not been born a lady, but her regard for Helen was shown in 
such a multiplicity of little kindnesses, that no feeling could 
be excited towards her but gratitude and love. Constantly 
as she was occupied with her pupils, Helen’s careful economy 
of time yet enabled her actually to accomplish the purpose she 
had in her mind when she chose Manchester for her vesidenca 


377 


^‘CASr THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS. ' 

The idle, nay even the less energetic, would have declared it 
was impossible for any one person to do what she did ; but 
Qot even the Doctor or his mother knew how her moments of 
made leisure were employed. 

So nearly three years glided by ; Helen’s health, instead 
of failing, as her friends had feared, actually improved ; and 
George declared there must have been some spell in her wordp 
or her example, for his prospects were brightening every year. 
Helen only smiled, and told him that the spell was simply in 
his own more hopeful exertions. 

Dr. Murray’s house was the frequent resort not only of 
men of talent from the higher ranks, but frequently of clever 
manufacturers and artificers, in whose works the Doctor and 
his mother were always particularly interested. It happened 
that Helen was present one evening when one of these gen- 
tlemen was regretting his inability to procure an appropriate 
design for some window curtains, of a new material, which 
he had invented ; being no artist himself, he could not perhaps 
define his wishes with sufficient technicality, but all which 
he had seen were, either so small as to have no effect, or so 
large as to look coarse and common. Before he departed the 
conversation changed, and Dr. Murray thought no more about 
it, until at a very early hour the next morning Helen entered 
his study with a roll of paper, which she asked him to exa- 
mine, and tell her if he thought it the kind of thing Mr. Grey 
required. His astonishment that she should remember any- 
thing about it was only equalled by his admiration of her 
work So great was his delight, that he declared he would 
convey it to Mr. Grey himself, and get her something hand- 
some for it. He was not disappointed. jMr. Grey seized it 
with rapture, declared it was the very thing he meant ; offered 
to pay any sum for it, and was struck dumb with astonish- 
ment, when told it was designed by the elegant young lady 
to whom he had been introduced the previous night, and whom 
ho had scarcely deigned to notice, believing her the same as 
most young ladies — a very pretty but a very useless piece of 
goods. One of his young men, who had been eagerly examin- 
ing it, said he was sure it was by the same hand as several 
other elegant designs which they had been in the habit of 
purchasing the last two years, but the name of whose inventor 
they had never been able to discover. He brought some, and 
compared them ; and even the Doctor’s unpractised eye could 
discern the same hand throughout. But how could Miss 


S78 ^‘CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS.” 

Laugley have accomplished all this, and yet so done her duty 
to his children ? It was incomprehensible ; and the good 
Doctor hurried home to have the mystery solved. Helen 
speedily explained it, adding ingenuosly, that she had worked 
in secret, only because sho feared the Doctor or his friends 
might think she must neglect her duty to her charge topuisuo 
this employment ; but since he had expressed such perfect 
satisfaction, she had resolved on taking the first opportunity 
to tell him all. 

“ But my good young lady, you must have some very strong 
incentive for all this exertion.” Blushing deeply, Helen ac- 
knowledged that she had. “ Is it a secret, my dear child ?” 

For a minute she hesitated, then frankly told her story. 
The Doctor was so much affected by it as to surprise her, and 
expressed the most unfeigned regret that he had not known 
it before. 

Not a fortnight afterwards, Mr. Grey sought an interview 
with Miss Langley; he wished, he said, to monopolize her 
talents, and offered, in consequence, with sufficient liberality 
as to tempt her to adhere to his employment, instead of taking 
the chance of laiger remuneration for occasional designs. It 
was for this Ellen had worked and prayed and hoped — this 
which she had looked to, to follow even as a wife, and in her 
husband’s house ; and therefore we leave to our reader’s ima- 
gination the gratitude with which it was acceptea, the joy 
with which she wrote to her parents, to George, to whom her 
woman’s heart so yearned in that moment of rejoicing, that 
for the first time since she had loved him she could scarcely 
write for tears. But the letters she received in reply sadly 
alloyed this dawning happiness. Her sister Fanny was dan- 
gerously ill ; the same age, the same disease which had be^^n 
so fatal to her family. All George’s skill, and it was great, 
had been ineffectual ; nothing could save her, the distracted 
father wrote ; she was doomed like all the rest. But to Helen 
there was no such word as doom. She flew to the Doctor, 
repeated to him as well as she could the symptoms, and the 
reme<lies a.pplied, conjuring him to think of something which 
would alleviate, :f it could not cure. What should she write ? 

“ Write, my dear child ! that will be of little use : we will 
go together.” And though there were no railroads in that di- 
re ffiou, man’s omnipotent will carried Helen and the Doctor 
to Mr. Langley’s cottage in so short a space, that it seemed to 
Helen like the transfigurations of a dream. 


CAST THY BREAD UPON THE ABATERS. 


379 


u 


For four days fearful were the alternations of hope and 
dread ; the fifth, hope predominated, and by the end of the 
week, promptness and skill in the adoption of an entirely new 
mode of treatment were so successful, that Dr. Murray was 
blessed again and again by the enraptured parents as, under 
heaven, the preserver of their child. But, though all danger 
was over, the Doctor did not offer to quit the cottage for an- 
other week, which time he spent mostly in his patient’s room, 
and in earnest conversation with young Ashley. Helen had 
intended to remain in his family till he could meet with some 
one to supply her place ; but this he now declared should not 
be. She must be wanted at home, at least till she could finish 
her preparations for entering another; for, if he were George, 
he would not wait another month ; she had had her own will 
too long already, and the future was bright enough now to 
permit him to have his. Helen’s hand was clasped in her 
young sister’s as the good Doctor spoke, but George’s arm was 
round her, and her reply seemed to satisfy all parties. 

All Mr. Langley’s attempts to obtain a private interview 
with his guest were ineffectual until the day of his intended 
departure, when, with trembling hands and swimming eyes, 
he tried to press a pocket-book into the Doctor’s hand. “ It 
is inadequate, wholly inadequate,” he said with emotion. 

“ You have saved my child ; so restored her, that she is better 
than she has been since her birth. You have given us your 
time, your Skill, and you shrink even from my thanks. Were 
I a rich man, I should feel as I do now, that a fortune could 
not repay you ; but, as a poor man, do not insult me by refus- 
ing the fee I can bestow.” 

“ Mr. Langley,” was the reply, “ I tell you truth, when I 
assure you that you owe me nothing. I am in your debt fiir 
more, far more than my professional skill ever could repay.” 

“ In my debt. Doctor ? Ah, you mean my Helen’s services ; 
but those you have so liberally remunerated, and treated her 
with such kindness, that you have made me your debtor even 
there. No, no, I cannot allow Helen, precious as she is, to 
come between me and justice.” 

“ I do not allude to Miss Langley, sir,” and the Doctor 
spoke as if addressing a superior. “ Her inestimable services 
to me and mine indeed nothing can repay ; but it was not for 
her sake I came to you. The debt I allude to is of more than 
thirty years’ standing, and it is due to you alone. On my first 
return to England, your position was higher, your fortune far 
17 


380 “ CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS.*^* 

superior to mine ; and had I then sought you, it might still 
have been to receive benefits at your hand. In your noble 
endurance of misfortune, it would have been an insult to have 
discharged my debt, and therefore' I waited and prayed for 
some opportunity not only to do justice, but to ev ace grati- 
tude. If I have made your child happy, and shortened the 
term of her heroic exertions, you owe it to yourself. I could 
not take from you even the full amount of this visit, regarding 
it merely as professional, for I owe you in actual money moro 
than that.” Mr. Langley looked and expressed bewilderment; 
the Doctor’s manner was too earnest to permit a doubt ; but 
he tried in vain to recall to what he could allude. 

“ Have you so completely forgotten Willie Murray, Mr. 
Edward?” continued his companion, much agitated. “Willie 
Murray, the poor boy you not only saved from sin, but made 
so happy by your generous kindness to his family. Mr. Lang- 
ley, I am that boy ; my character, my success I owe to you. 
How can such a debt ever be repaid ?” 

Mr. Langley’s astonishment was so great, as literally to 
deprive him for the moment of words. He only remembered 
Willie Murray as a pale, thin, intellectual boy of fifteen. To 
recognise him in the tall, stout, somewhat aged-looking man 
before him, required more imagination than he chanced to 
possess ; but to doubt the identity was impossible. He grasped 
his hand warmly, and insisted on his giving him that very 
hour the history of his life. Our readers, however, must be 
contented with a very brief sketch of these details. Sufiice it, 
that neither Willie nor his father rose to independence without 
constant toil and unwearying perseverance. Profiting by the 
trials of earlier years, the elder Murray laboured with an en- 
ergy and skill which, until his timely release from prison, had 
appeared foreign to his character. Many difficulties he had to 
encounter ; but once the manufactory established, competence 
was secured ; and as his labour j-ather increased than slack- 
ened, fortune followed. His son’s marked preference for the 
medical profession grieved him at first, but he lived long 
enough to see that he had chosen wisely, and at his death left 
all his children comfortably provided for, each possessing a 
share in the manufactory which his energy had established. 
Willie had always yearned to return to England, and did so 
dicectly he became a widower, his mother gladly accompanying 
nim He had finished his medical education in France, had a 
large practice in America, and, fron; his general intelligence, 


381 


‘‘cast thy bread upon the waters.” 

\ 

proved skill, and wide-handed benevolence, very speedily became 
popular in England. But amid all the chances and changes of 
his busy life, neither the fearful temptation of his boyhood 
nor Edward Langley’s generous kindness had ever been for- 
gotten. 

Joyous indeed, and full of hope, was Helen Langley’s 
bridal morn, though neither pomp nor fashion attended it 
such as might have been the case some few years before. On 
retiring to change her dress, Helen found a heavy packet, di- 
rected to Mrs. George Ashley, on her table. It was a purse, 
containing three hundred sovereigns, with the following brief 
lines ; — 

‘ This is your father’s gift, though it comes through me. I do but re- 
turn a sum lent by him to me and mine, with the accumulated interest 
of three-and-thirty years. It is now added to the store earned by Helen 
Langley’s meritorious exertions. Wii.liam Murray.” 

“ Mother !” exclaimed Mr. Langley, after perusing this 
note, and turning to his now aged parent with some emotion, 
“ do you remember your words, when I told you the money 
was as freelj given, and I expected as little reward as if 1 
had thrown it on the waters, ‘ that I should find it after many 
days?’ You were right: I have found it indeed !” 


friumyl joif fjte. 


Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth, 

Unseen, both when we sleep, and when we wake I 

Milton. 


I. 

It was a scene of unrivalled beauty ; yet might some mar« 
vel wherefore it was thus created, so far removed from mor« 
tal ken, so severed from the habitations of sin and death, 
that foot of man had never sullied the pure fresh green of the 
velvet grass : mortal hand had never culled the brilliant 
flowers, gemming each silvery stream ; corporeal sense had 
never been regaled by their fragrant breath, or lulled by the 
sweet music of the waters. The leafy branches of the ancient 
trees stretched forth their deep green shadows, and hill, and 
stream, and valley, each clothed in its own peculiar beauty, 
derived fresh charms, as the seasons softly and silently 
sped by, leaving bright tokens as they sped. The stars 
still smiled at their own sparkling rays gleaming up from 
the gushing water ; the pensive moon still touched the glossy 
leaves with her diamond pencil, still lingered on the verdant 
mount, leaving rich shadows on the luxuriant vales ; the 
sun still sent forth his bright beams, to revive and cherish 
the glistening flowers, to whisper of his unfailing love ; still 
did he bid them drink up the dewdrops, which, trembling 
beneath his earnest gaze, yet sprung up from their homes at 
his first call, eager to lose themselves in him. Day, in his 
mirth and light, gave place to silent and shadowy night ; and 
night again to day. Yet man was not there, and wherefore 
had such loveliness birth? — ^wherefore was it so continually 
renewed ? 

Man would joy in the contemplation of beauty, such as 
this scene presented ; yet his imperfect vision would see no 
further than mount and vale, and trees and shrubs, and 
streams and flowers ; he would hear nought but the rustle of 
the leaf, the murmur of the breeze, the music of the brook, 


THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 


383 


the luscious scents floating on the breeze, would be but in- 
distinctly distinguished, and his fancy perchance yearn 
towards them, and long for perfume more defined, even 
as we sometimes seek to unite into sweet melody the 
thrilling notes, which, one by one, at dreamy intervals, 
linger on the distant air ; and these things he would hear, 
and feel, and see, and dream not there were sights and 
sounds hovering around him too pure, too spiritual for 
earthly sense. 

There were glorious spirits — angelic beings floating on 
the ambient air, and lingering beside the waters, and sporting 
with the jewelled buds. There were rich tones lingering on 
the breeze — sweet thrilling voices mingling with gold^en harps 
and silvery flutes ; there were luscious scents ascending to the 
arching heaven ; even as if, guided by ministering spirits, 
each floweret sent up her grateful incense to the throne of her 
Creator. As the dazzling flash of the diamond, the softer 
gleam of the emerald, the radiant beam of the sapphire, the 
intense rays of the ruby, so shone these beautiful beings, as 
they fleeted to and fro on their respective tasks. Some 
replenishing the brooks with living waters from vases which 
seemed moulded from precious gems. Some tending the 
flowers, inhaling and bestowing fragrance, or whispering those 
sweet memories, with which man ever finds the flowers of the 
desert filled. Some lingering in groups upon the mount, 
crowning its flowery brow as with a circlet of living rays. 
Some flying downwards, agitating the valley with soft 
delicious winds, and others freshening the rich tints of the 
far-spreading foliage ; and far and near their voices sounded 
in one rich hymn of praise, whose theme was love ; and the 
golden harps prolonged the hallelujahs, sounding up through 
the blue realms of space, till they mingled with the deeper, 
mightier harmonies around the Eternal’s throne, bearing 
along its thrilling echo, joined by innumerable voices, till the 
whole air seemed filled with song, and still that song was 
Love ! 

Beautiful as were these celestial spirits — beautiful and 
blessed above all conception of finite man — yet they were not 
of the highest class of angels. 

Incapable of sin, unconscious of pain or sorrow, but not 
yet admitted to hover over the dwelling of man, to minister 
unto the afflicted, to tend the couch of the dying, to whisper 
of rest to the weary, hope to the desponding, joy to the 
mourner. 


384 


THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 


Snrnble of the Eternal’s presence, their bliss made 
perfect in His glory, their task was to watch and tend 
inanimate creation; — to sing His praises amidst the glorious 
shrines of nature, till His works proclaimed him unto 
man. 

Activity and obedience were the sole virtues demanded 
of these celestial beings in the tasks above enumerated, and 
when these had been sufficiently exercised, they graduated to 
a higher order of angels, nearer the Eternal’s throne, who 
were permitted to receive His will and make it known to 
man. The desire to obtain this privilege was lively in all, 
but far removed from that grosser passion known to man as 
ambition. In them it did but add zest to enjoyment ; give 
energy to love, inspiration to obedience. Faith they needed 
not; for to them the Eternal was revealed. Anticipation 
was lost in fulfilment — hope in completion. Their nature 
was not susceptible of a deeper sense of bliss ; but as they 
ascended higher and higher in the scale of angels, the deeper, 
fuller, more glorious blessedness was met by a nature yet 
more purified, spiritualized, exalted, fitted for its reception, 
and strengthened to retain it. 


II. 

Reposing on a sunbeam lingering on the brow of a hill, a 
spirit lay, apart from his fellows. His brow was wreathed 
with the opal, emerald, and ruby ; so blending their several 
rays that they seemed but as a circlet of ever-changing light. 
His long flowing hair shone as if each clustering ringlet 
had been bathed in the liquid diamond. His downy wings, 
woven of every shade, gently waved in air, wafting the richest 
perfume, and dyeing the sunbeam on which he lay in 
every brilliant tint. A light mist enveloped his angelic 
form — softening, not lessening, his resplendent loveliness. 
Ilis eye shone as the midnight star ; a bloom, softer, 
lovelier, purer than the earliest rose, played on his cheek ; 
sparkling smiles wreathed his lips. He spoke, and his 
voice was music, though his golden harp lay silent by his 
side. 

“ Love ! love !” he murmured. “ Hallelujah to the Lord 
of love ! Let the full choirs of heaven chant forth the 
immortal theme ; proclaim, proclaim Him Love ! Earth ! 


THE TRIUMPH OP LOVE. 


385 


air ! ocean ! shout with your hundred tongues, send up your 
echo to the voice of heaven! Man art thou insensible?— 
Hearest thou not these living tones? Can doubt be thine, 
as I have heard whispered in the celestial courts ? Created 
by Love — placed in a world of love — distant as thou art, yet 
cherished and beloved by Love, destined for immortal union 
with the Love that gave thee being I — canst thou be faith- 
less. canst thou be senseless? — when above, below, around, 
within, soundeth the deep eternal voice of Love ! Oh, in- 
aensates, if such things be I Immortal glory, bliss unfading, 
can it be for ye ?” 

Awhile he paused. A slight shadow passed athwart the 
brilliant rays with which he was encircled. He folded his 
wings around him, and laid his brow upon them. 

“ My thought has been rebuked,” he said ; “ I have done 
ill. Enough for me the consciousness of love. Wherefore 
should I condemn, as yet unworthy to look on man ? Let the 
hallelujahs sound forth again. Glory to the Eternal 1 — His 
works are wisdom. His thoughts are love I” 

He swept his hand across his harp — the shadow had de- 
parted from his wings ; — his chaplet shot forth again its living 
light. Celestial music flowed forth from his voice and hand : — 
the spirit smiled once more. Suddenly the hallelujahs ceased. 
To the eye of man twilight had descended ; the stars began 
to light up the dark blue heavens. Mortal vision might trace 
the semblance of a falling meteor of unwonted brilliance drop- 
ping into space. The purifled orbs of the seraph crowd 
knew that one of the highest class of angels was departing 
from his replendent seat, and winging his flight towards them. 
Instantly they rose up from their several resting-places, forming 
in files of unutterable brilliance. Increased happiness shed a 
new lustre on their brows, and heightened the glowing iris of 
their wings. One alone felt penetrated with an awe, which 
slightly lessened the feelings of joy which the visit of an angel 
ever caused. He feared it was to him the celestial mission 
came: that his condemnation of beings, whose nature and 
whose trials he knew not, had exposed him to censure, perhaps 
to a longer banishment from the higher spheres of glory ; and 
while his brothers thronged round the favoured minister, to 
bask in the resplendent b^rightness of his smiles, to list to the 
words of melody flowing from his lips, to gaze on the mild yet 
thrilling softness of his celestial features, Zephon stood aloof, 
for the first time shrinking from the glance and voice he loved 


386 


THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 


He saw not that the glittering helm and dazzling sword were 
laid aside, that his brow was wreathed with the softly gleam- 
ing pearl, his shining wings glistening through silvery radiance, 
bespeaking tenderness and mercy, and not now the wrath and 
chastisement of which, at his Maker’s will, he was at times 
the minister. 

His voice, melodious and thrilling as the silver trumpets 
cf the empyreal heavens, sounded through space, as it called 
‘‘ Zephon !” The seraph paused not a moment, but darting 
through the incensed air, prostrated himself at the archangers 
feet. 

“ Arise ! and fear not, youthful brother,” spake the mes- 
senger of the Eternal, departing not from ihe grave majesty 
of his demeanour, but smiling with such ineffable sweetness, the 
seraph felt its reviving influence, and spread forth his silken 
pinions rejoicingly again. “ I come, the harbinger of peace 
and love. Thine impassioned zeal was checked ere it became 
a fault — checked ere it led thee to desire forbidden knowledge. 
Charged with a message of love and mercy from the Most 
High, I have besought and obtained permission to take thee 
as my companion. To thine imperfect vision, it seemeth 
strange that man, so especially the beloved, the cherished of 
the Eternal, framed to display, to uphold His stupendous 
power, to proclaim His might — His love — should ever fail 
either in obedience or adoration. Thou hast heard that such 
has been ; for where sin hath so fearfully prevailed, that an 
immortal spirit has been excluded from these glorious realms, 
a dim shadow hath spread over Heaven’s resplendent courts, 
and the celestial spirits of every rank have prostrated them- 
selves before the invisible yet terrible Presence, adoring jus- 
tice, while they supplicated mercy. Zephon ! not yet may be 
revealed to thee the glorious mystery of the Eternal’s secret 
ways. Thou mayst gaze with me on the earthly beings I have 
charge to tend ; but it is forbidden thee to ask or seek the 
wherefore of what thou seest. Thou wilt behold even in this 
limited glance, enough to prove, that even if the human heart 
refuseth to send up its thrilling echo to the theme of Love, 
which thy zeal demandeth, the unfathomable love of its benig- 
nant Creator will receive and bless its faintest sigh ; for to 
Him, and to Him alone, is known the extent of its trial — tho 
bitterness of its grief — the difficulty of its belief in an ever- 
acting love, Zephon ! if still thou wilt, thou shalt look on 
the human heart : yet pause awhile ; — is thy love sufficiently 


THE TRIUMPH OP LOVE. 


381 


strong tc uphold thee in the contemplation of decrees, whose 
motives thou art not yet permitted to conceive 1 In thy blissful 
dwelling, thou hast no need of Faith ; thou knowest not even 
its name ; but if with me thou goest. Faith must be thy safe- 
guard. Here thine eye seeth, thine ear heareth nought but love ; 
there it may be darkly hidden from thee. Yet if thy faith 
or thy love should fail, if thou demandest the wherefore of 
what thou seest, it is our Father’s will, that thou shalt be 
banished unto earth — banished from this glorious abode, con- 
demned to struggle with the ills and sorrows of mortality, till 
pure and perfect faith shine forth, and fit thee once again for 
heaven. Speak, then, my brother ; wilt thou depart with me, 
or still linger here? The choice is now thine own.” 

Aw'hile the seraph paused ; the face of the archangel 
beamed on him with compassionating tenderness and re- 
doubled love. The looks of his brother spirits, the soft flut- 
tering of their wings, seemed to woo him to remain, to entreat 
him not to tempt the fate threatened if his love should fail, 
and therefore did he pause. 

“ No, no ! wherefore should I fear?” he cried ; “ I will go 
with thee, minister of love. I will look upon my Father’s 
dearest work, and despite of mystery and gloom — of sorrow — 
of pain, I will love and bless him still !” 

A fuller, richer burst of melody filled the realms of air ; 
thousands and thousands of voices swelled forth in triumphant 
harmony. A starry cloud descended, and, folded in its spangled 
robe, the departing spirits vanished into space. 


Ill 

“ Thy wish is fulfilled ; the peculiar treasure of our Father 
is revealed. Zephon, behold !” the angel spake, as the shroud- 
ing cloud rolled away towards the fields of ether, and the 
celestial spirits hovered over the abode of man. A sudden, 
an indescribable consciousness of increased powers, of height- 
ened intellect, shot from the starry eyes of the youthful 
seraph. Man in his majesty, his beauty — bearing in his 
every movement, his exquisitely-formed frame, his complicated 
economy of being, yet more impressive, more startling evidence 
cf the might, the wisdom, the benevolence of his glorious 
Maker, than even the source of the river, the structure of the 
flower, the growth of the tree, over which the seraph had pre 


388 


THE TRIUMPH OF LO 


sided, finding even in such things ample scope for the soaring 
intellect which characterised his race. Man, proceeding from, 
destined for, immortality — the beloved, the peculiar care and 
treasure of the Eternal — man, beautiful man, stood revealed 
before him. Yet amidst the thronging multitude on which he 
gazed, but one heart, in all its varied impulses, its hidden 
throbs and incongruous thoughts and ever-changing fancies — 
but one beautiful intellect, in all its secret powers and extent, 
was open to his inspection ; and lovely, even to the eyes of a 
spirit, was the being in whom such glorious things were 
shrined. 

She was a young and noble maiden, perfect in form and 
face ; her virtues scarce sullied by a stain of earth, a.though, 
from the spirit of Poetry, the living fount of Genius, dwelling 
within, open to grief and trial, even from the faintest breath 
too rudely jarring on the heavenly-strung chords with which 
her heart was filled. A deep, lowly, clinging piety was ever 
ready to check the first impulse of impatience, to turn to the 
sweet joys of sympathy and universal love the too vivid sense 
of sorrow either for herself or others. Humility was there, 
to lift up that young spirit in thankfulness to its Creator, and 
to devote that powerful intellect, ever seeming to bear all 
difficulties before it, to His service in the good of her fellow- 
creatures. 

Zephon saw that the praise of man was a source of pure, 
inspiring pleasure ; but instead of filling her soul with pride, 
it ever bore it up in increased devotion to its God. He mark- 
ed her graceful form, sporting to and fro amid the stately 
domains of her lordly ancestors. He marked the love of 
parents, brothers, friends, that ever thronged around her, and 
the fulness of joy that love bestowed. He saw, too, the im- 
passioned longings for yet stronger love, the yearnings for 
fame ; appreciation, not alone from the noble and the gay, but 
from the gifted and the good ; the desire to awake, by the 
magic touch of genius, the same thrilling chords in other 
hearts, as the spell of others had revealed in hers. 

The seraph looked long and earnestly. Suddenly he 
saw her standing in the centre of a lordly room, and lov- 
ing and admiring friends around her; her lip, her eye, 
her heart breathed joy, well-nigh as full and shadowless as 
the blessedness of heaven. After awhile the angel spake. 

“ There is nought here to call for Faith,” he said. “ Yon 
favoured child of genius but awakens deeper yet more adoring 


THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 


389 


love. Her lot is blessedness ; her heart so pure, earth hath 
scarce power to stain that bliss. But now look yonder, 
Zephon. Seest thou amidst the multitude a being equally, 
though differently lovely — equally powerful in intellect, equally 
the child of genius, as richly gifted, alike in wisdom as in vir- 
tue, as fully susceptible of joy and sorrow ; the same feelings, 
the same desires, the same deep yearnings for love on which 
tc lest, for appreciation, fame ; the same strung heart, thrilling 
to melody as keenly as to neglect. Mark well, young brother, 
and thou wilt trace these things.” 

Anxiously the seraph gazed, and again he was conscious 
of sufficient power to read the human heart. Again, amidst 
the multitude, one gentle being stood unveiled before him ; 
and, save for the difference in form and face, he had thought 
perchance it was the same on whom he had gazed before, so 
similar were their virtue's, powers, temperament, and genius; 
— similar in all things, save that the sense of bliss in the one 
already appeared more chastened, more timid than in the 
other. He looked, then turned inquiringly towards his com- 
panion. 

“ The will of the Eternal,” he said, in answer, produced 
at the same instant these lovely beings, and breathed into 
both the spirit which thou seest. Their souls are twin-born 
— twin-born in sensation, in power, in beauty, formed of the 
highest, most ethereal essence, and thus creating that which 
earth terms genius ; destined at the same moment to animate 
the beautiful habitation formed for each, and at the same mo- 
ment depart from it. Until now, their fate hath been, with 
little variation, the same, differing only according to their 
station ; the one standing amidst the highest and noblest of 
her land, findeth fit companions for that nobleness and refine- 
ment indivisible from genius ; the other already feeleth there 
is that within her incomprehensible to those around her ; yet 
is the consciousness of little moment, for freely and joyously 
she roams amid the varied scenes of nature. She mingles 
but with those eager and anxious to enhance her innocent 
pleasures —to give to her exalted mind and gentle virtues the 
homage naturally their due. She looks on the world from a 
distance, and hath peopled it with all things fond, and bright, 
and beautiful, which take their exquisite colouring from her 
own lovely and loving mind. She yearns for appreciation, as 
thou seest — for the praise of the multitude won by her talents, 
but she asks not to mingle with them. She seeks but the lovo 


390 


THE TRIUMPH OP LOVE. 


of one, and the proud consciousness of doing good to many, 
She demands not a statelier home, a prouder station. Thus, then, 
thou seest the earthly fate of these twin-born spirits hath roll- 
ed on the same ; but now it is the will of the All- wise, All- 
merciful, All- just, that a shadowy change should pass over 
the one, and bliss, fuller, dearer, perfect as earth may feel, be 
dawning for the other. Thou hast marked the quick throb of 
joy now playing on the heart of the noble child of genius. 
She, beholds her first triumph in the bock she clasps. The 
thoughts that breathe, the words that burn, have found their 
echo in the multitude, and loving friends throng around to 
proclaim her dawning fame. There are tears in those lovely 
eyes ; but ’tis a mother’s voice of love, of tenderness, that 
calls them there. See, clasped to a parent’s bosom, the swell- 
ing fulness of the spirit finds vent in tears, for joy, that pure, 
stainless joy, which is sent as the dim whisperings of heaven, 
ever turns to pain on earth, and had it not relief in tears, 
would bear the soul away to that world of which it speaks. 
She hath flown from the detaining throng, and hark ! — hear- 
est thou not the hymn of thanksgiving ascending up on high, 
till the tumultuous joy subsides, and peace is gained once 
more ?” 

He ceased ; a brighter radiance passed ever his benignant 
brow, and the voice of the seraph spontaneously flowed forth 
in kindred harmony with the hymn of earth, bearing it on 
the wings of melody to the realms of song. ’Twas hushed, 
and the Hierarch again spake. 

“ Behold !” he said, the music of his voice subdued and 
softened, behold, yet murmur not ! It is the will of the 
Eternal, and therefore it is well.” 

The seraph gazed on a changed and darkened scene. As 
deep, as full as was the bliss from which his eye had that 
moment turned, so deep, so intense was the anguish he now be- 
held. The gentle being in whom that twin-born spirit breathed, 
knelt beside the couch of the dead. He marked the wrung 
and bleeding heart ; he read its utter loneliness, its agonized 
despair ; he read it was a mother’s loss she mourned — a more 
than mother, for by her, by her alone, her child’s ethereal 
soul, her fond imaginings, her strong affections, had been 
known, and loved, and fostered ; to her, her beautiful had ever 
come, to seek and find that sympathy which she found not in 
another — and she was gone, and the dark troubled strirings 
of that desolate heart not yet could deem it love. 


THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 


391 


“She weeps, and shall we condemn, young brother, that 
not yet her voice may join in the universal hymn ? She 
weeps, yet knows not all her woe. The stability, the honour 
the strength of her father were derived from the mild coun- 
sels, the gentle unobtrusive virtues of her mother ; in him 
they have no stay. That moral evil, too darkly prevalent on 
earth, once more will gain dominion, and the joys of the 
innocent, the helpless, are blighted ’ncath its poison. On 
earth she stands alone — yet hark ! What means that burst 
of triumph in the skies?” 

Ineffably brilliant was the smile on the countenance of the 
angel ; and Zepbon, startled, yet entranced, looked again on 
that bleeding heart. The dark and troubled waves within 
were stilled ; there was no voice — no sign ; but the lamp of 
faith was lit ; her soul had murmured Love ; and bowed, 
adoring and resigned. 


IV. 

Again did the 5muthful spirit gaze down on earthly joy, 
chastened in its fulness, yet ecstatic in its nature. Love, 
pure, perfect, faithful love, had twined around that fair and 
gifted child of earth, and filled the blank which yet remained ; 
though fame, appreciation, triumph, sympathy, affection, all 
were hers. She had found a kindred soul-, round which to 
weave the clinging tendrils of her own ; virtues to revere, 
piety to support, uphold, and cherish the soarings of her 
own. Sha had found one whose praise might still those 
passionate yearnings, the which to satisfy she had vainly 
looked to fame ; one, from whose lips how sweet became the 
praise of the world ; — one to give new zest to her exalted 
genius ; for by him it was most valued, most beloved. Zepbon 
looked on the beautiful blossoming of genius, the expansion 
of intellect, the flowering of every budding hope; and he 
saw, too, the chastened humility, the unwavering love, which 
traced these rich gifts to their source, and lifted up her heart 
in universal love and grateful adoration ; and again his voice 
joined hers in thanksgiving. 

Once more, at the voice of the archangel, he sought and 
found the kindred essence, and love was on that heart, deep, 
mighty, whelming love, bearing before it for awhile even the 
sere and withered leaves, with which its depths were strewed 


392 


THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 


He looked on the wreck of that which he had seen so lovely? 
— the wreck ot all save the gentle virtues, the meek submis- 
sion which had characterised her youth ; the rosy dreams, the 
glowing visions presented but a crushed and broken mass ; 
their bright fragments seeking ever to unite, but ever rudely 
severed. Genius, in its deep wild burnings, its impassioned 
breathing, feeding as a smothered fire upon her own young 
heart, seeking ever to find a vent, an eeho — to be known, 
acknowledged, loved ; but falling back with every efibrt, till 
even genius seemed increase of sorrow — and hope yet glim- 
mered there, pale, sickly, shadowy, in its faint rays emi^iting 
but increase of light, to be immersed in deeper gloom. And 
love was there, intense, all-mighty, yet it brought no joy. 

‘‘ She loves — she was beloved,” again spake the angelic 
voice ; “ but the sin of the father is visited upon the child. 
A little while he appeared devoted unto her, and to the 
memory of the departed ; and though he led her from the 
scenes she loved, to mingle more closely with the world, his 
affection soothed, his ho'pes inspired ; but he knew not the 
ethereal nature of that soul, and the scenes which earth terms 
gay and joyous touched no answering chord in her, and led 
}ttni once again astray. Yet, for a brief while, happiness was 
hers, banishing those vain yearnings, ever proceeding from a 
soul too sensitive for earth ; but the same hour which awoke 
her to a consciousness of love, given and returned, turned 
back that fountain of bliss upon her seared and withered 
heart, and changed it into gall. The child of a dishonoured 
parent was no fit mate for nobleness and honour, and earth is 
lone once m^re.” 

Tears, the sweet bright tears that angels weep, bedewed 
the eyes of the seraph ; yet riveted their gaze on that one sad 
child of earth, as if in its dark and troubled chaos there were 
yet more to read. He saw, too, the slight and beautiful shell 
in wdiich that spirit was enshrined quivering beneath the 
tempest, till at length it lay prostrate and unhinged, and 
intense bodily suffering heightened mental ill. 

“ ’Tis the struggle for submission and resignation that 
hath done this,” continued the angel. “ Seest thou no dream 
of unbelief, no murmur of complaint hath entered that heart ; 
anguish may with3r up the swelling hymn, may check the 
voice of love, but faith is there I And mark ! though, in His 
unquestionable wisdom, the Eternal’s will is to afflict, though 
in impenetrable darkness, save to those beside His throne. Ho 


THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 


393 


hideth tlio secrvit wherefore of that will, invisibly His minis- 
ters are charged to hover round His favoured child, to com 
fort and sustain, though lone and desolate on earth. Behold !” 

Bright, beautiful spirits, robed in light and glory, hovered 
round the couch of sorrow ; yet earth hid them from their 
kindred essence. She saw them not ; felt not the mild reviv- 
ing influence of their spiritual presence, save that gradually 
and slowly the chains which bound those beautiful limbs were 
loosed. The whirlwind sweeping over that heart subsided 
into partial calm ; and strength was given her to struggle on 
and live. 

Zephon looked on the child of sorrow, and a faint shadow 
stole over the brilliant iris of his wings ; the living rays on 
his brow grew dim. 


V. 

Again did the seraph look down on earth, again did he 
gaze on the favoured child of joy. The ecstatic sense of bliss 
he had marked before had subsided into happiness as full, as 
pure, as thrilling, yet chastened in its fulness. There were 
young and lovely forms around her ; a mother’s love had added 
its unutterable sweetness to her lot He looked on her heart, 
and marked how sweetly and beautifully its every dream, 
its every hope, had bloomed to full maturity. How softly 
its light cares were soothed by sympathy and love on earth, 
and trust and hope in heaven ; how earnestly it sought 
to pour back its every gift into the gracious hand from 
which it sprung, and load her children as herself, to the thresh- 
old of Eternal joy. He looked on that unveiled heart, as, 
wandering with those she loved amid the glorious shrines of 
nature, she found in every leaf, and stream, and bird, and 
flower somewhat to bid her children love, and add to the in- 
exhaustible spring of poesie and genius "which rested still 
within, and gave new zest, new brightness to her simplest joy 

He gazed on her alone, amidst the books she loved, the 
studies her genius craved ; he read the deep, pure, shadowless 
joy it was to feel that gift had done its work, and sent its pure 
and lucid flame amidst the unthinking crowd, and carried 
blessings with it ; that its rich music had left its impression 
on many a thoughtless heart : had shed sweet balm over hours 
of sad, lonely sickness ; had spoken its soft sympathy to th* 


394 


THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 


diseased and sorrowing mind, and sent new, brighter, purer 
joyance to the young, eager, and imaginative soul. It had 
done these things, and was it marvel she rejoiced ? 

Zephon gazed ; but the shadow passed not from his wings, 
and hastily and silently he turned once more to seek the 
kindred essence. The whelming woe had given place to a 
strangely complicated mass of cross and twisted strings, which 
tightly fettered down each glorious gift, each cherished hope, 
each fond aspiring, yet gave them space to throb, and live, 
and whisper still. The bright undying flame of genius never 
seemed to burn with more o’er-sweeping power ; yet the flashes 
that it sent but scorched the heart that held them. Hope still 
was there, sending forth her lovely blossoms ; but to be nipped 
and blighted ’neath the close and icy strings that stretched 
above them. There were chains upon that spirit, binding it 
to earth, when most it longed to spring on high ; and the shell, 
the lovely shell which held it was dwindling ’neath its with- 
ering spell. The seraph marked the tension of each vein 
and nerve, and pulse, till it seemed as if the very next breath 
of emotion, however faint, would snap them in twain ; the 
painful effort to restrain the irritation of bodily and mental 
suffering, the agony of remorse which the slightest ebullition 
of impatience caused. 

He beheld her hour by hour, the centre of a noisy group 
of children, possessing not one attribute to call forth that 
tonent of love and tenderness with which her soul was fllled. 
He marked the starting of each nerve, the bounding of each 
pulse, at every shout of rude and noisy revelry, the inward 
fever attending every effort to restrain and instruct. He saw 
her, when midnight enwrapt the earth, alone for a brief space, 
in a poor and comfortless room ; the bright visions of genius 
thronging tumultuously on mind and brain ; incongruous and 
wild, from their having been so long pent up in darkness, and 
woe. He beheld the effort to give the burning fancies vent ; 
the utter failing of the mortal frame ; the prostration of all 
power, save that which yet would lift up heart and hands in 
the low cry ; “ Father, it is thy will ; I know not wherefore ; 
yet, oh ! yet, if Thou wiliest it, it is, it must be well !” and 
he heard unnumbered harps bear up that voice of Faith, in 
melody overpowering in its deep rich tones. He marked the 
spirits of light and loveliness still hovering around, moulding 
those burning tears into precious gems, changing each quiver- 
ing sigh to songs of glory ; yet still his sight seemed strangely 
dim, the shadow passed not from his wings. 


THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 


395 


“ And man, her brother man, hath he no love, no tender 
ness, no thoughts for sorrow such as hers ?” the seraph asked ; 
“ knows he not of the precious gifts, the gentle virtues that 
frail shell enfolds? Wherefore is she thus lone? — hath man 
no answering chord ?” 

“ Man sees not the interior of that heart, as thou dost.’ 
rejoined the Hierarch. “ When through disobedience sin en- 
tered yon beautiful world, man’s eyes became darkened to- 
wards his fellows, and but too often his rebellious and per- 
verted mind wilfully refuses knowledge of his brother, lest 
sympathy should bid him share the grief of others. In some 
envy, foul envy, the base passion which first darkened earth 
with death, wilfully blinds, lest the genius and the virtue of 
the poor should be exhalted above the rich ; in others it is 
ignorance, contempt, neglect, springing from that rank poison 
selfishness, or I’lie loathsome weed indifference, which flings a 
thick veil over others’ woe, and so confines the gaze — it sees 
no farther than itself. To mortal vision yon gentle being is 
composed and calm. Man marks but the outward frame ; love 
alone might trace the decline of strength, the failing of bodily 
power ; but there is none near to love. Poverty hath flung 
those chains upon the heart, confining the ethereal spirit, drag- 
ging it down to earth, yet deadening not its power. Poverty, 
privation, have thrown her amongst those whose grosser, more 
material natures are incapable of appreciating the heavenly 
rays of genius ; of comprehending its effect upon the temper- 
ament and the frame. They deem her lot a happy one, for 
they cannot know how much more she needs — what cause she 
has for sorrow. They would laugh in bitter scorn at those 
griefs which have their birth in feeling^ whose intensity, whose 
depth of suffering are to them utterly unknown. No ! man 
may not alleviate woes like hers. In the dark circle her fate 
is fixed ; earth, mortal fading earth, is all ; they have no time 
for dreams and thoughts of heaven. A spirit like to hers, 
bearing on its brow a stamp of glory not its own. Alas ! my 
brother, man will not mark such things. Sin, foul sin, hath 
dimmed its gaze ” 

The seraph folded his beautiful wings around him. There 
was a strange dim sense of pain upon him, undefined yet 
sad, as the first clouding of mortal vision unto man, ere sight 
departs for ever. When he looked forth again, the scene 
was changed, and it was bright and beautiful, though death 
▼as there. 


396 


THE TRIUMPH OP LOVE. 


The blessed, the loved, the cherished ! — she lay there, calm, 
yet rejoicing, — though the loved around her wept. Kecalled 
to its native home, ere age or sorrow dimmed the spirit’s glory ; 
joyfully, willingly, she heard the call, for death had no pang 
for her. She knew she parted from her beloved to meet 
again, “ where never sounds farewell.” She knew she was 
departing to that blissful bourne, whose glorious light had 
beamed so softly and beautifully on her earthly course, 
gilding MORTAL happiness with immortal glory ; to that 
goal, where each bright gift would be made perfect, her finite 
wisdom find completion in infinity. Still, still the comfort of 
her voice consoled the hearts that wept around ; her lip yet 
sent forth gentle words to soothe and bless when she was 
gone ; the mind, the beautiful mind, yet shone in all its 
living light — death had no power to dim its lustre. Brighter 
and brighter gleamed the departing soul ; and thoughts, 
sweet thoughts, came thronging on that heart, of duties done, 
of life that sought but good, of universal love, benevolence, 
and peace ; and blessings of the poor, the needy, and the 
sorrowing hovered round her as angels robed in light. Joy ! 
joy! oh, still was that gentle spirit wreathed in joy, — the 
grave had lost its sting, and death was swallowed up in 
victory 1 

Irresistibly and rapidly the seraph sought the twin-born 
spirit, — which, at the same hour, was to wing her fiight from 
earth. There were none to weep around her couch of loneli- 
ness and pain ; but one, a kind and lowly hireling, was near 
to mark that spirit’s parting pang, to smooth the pillow, and 
whisper of repose. No sign of luxury was there, no gentle 
hand, with luscious fruit or cooling draught, to tempt the 
fevered lip, the parched and tasteless tongue. Dark, close, 
confined, the chamber of the dying — but a few pale flowers, 
children of field and brook, alone stood beside her, to whisper 
’twas a poet’s dying home. Save that, perchance, the trea- 
sured volumes still around, disclosed that the mind was bright, 
and strong, and lovely still. Her thin hand still clasped a 
book, her eyes lit up as they gazed upon the page, and for a 
brief space her cheek shone with a bloom that scarce could 
seem of death. Zephon looked within the heart and started. 
Hope gleamed up amidst its crushed and broken chords; hope, 
aye. and one bright flash of joy darting forth as a sunbeam 
midst the shrouding mass of clouds, and momentary, coeval 
with that joy, the wish, fond wish to live. 


I 


THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE. 397 

St?rt not, my brother !” the thrilling accents of the 
angel once more spake. “ She gazes on her own fond dreams, 
her own pure visions ; she clasps their record in the volume 
that she holds. Acknowledged, sought, appreciated ; her 
genius has burst through the veil of obscurity and woe, and 
fame, undying fame, hath wreathed his laurels to adorn the 
dead. Man will weep upon her grave, will wreathe her name 
with glory, will reverence too late the genius that hath gone, 
— and therefore would she live. It is the last struggle, the 
last pang. — the spirit is too pure, too free, to fold too long 
the chain which earth holds forth, even though its links are 
joy. Behold !” 

The seraph looked once more. There had been a struggle 
— a brief and anguished pang ; joy and hope lay crushed for 
ever, beneath the sickening consciousness ; ’twas all too late, 
and she must die ! There came one murmuring doubt, one 
painful question — wherefore she was thus called away, when 
earth gave promise of such sweet reviving flowers ? And 
darkness spread forth her pall, and shrouded up that heart, 
but speedily it passed ; a soft and mellowed light gleamed up; 
the blackened shade rolled up and fled ; the ruin and its 
chains were gone, and peace, and faith, and joy twined hand 
in hand together. 


VI. 

Zephon looked not on the abodes of man. The Hierarch 
alone stood before him, surrounded by a blaze of glory. In- 
effable brilliance shone forth from his brow and wings, yet 
softened into compassionating tenderness was his radiant look, 
his thrilling voice. A trembling awe spread over the seraph, 
and involuntarily he bowed before him. ^ 

“ Thy will is accomplished, youthful brother, thou hast 
glanced on man,” spake the angelic voice ; “ yet know, that 
which thou hast seen is but as a single grain amid the spread- 
ing sands of the boundless desert ; as a single spark of earthly 
lire amid the countless stars and Ijlazing suns of heaven, com- 
pared with the scenes of woe yon world of beauty holds. When 
Sin entered, Joy fled trembling up to the heaven whence he 
came. Twined as he was with purity and innocence, without 
them earth could have for him no stay, no resting ; man reaps 


398 


THE TRIUMPH OP LOVE. 


the fruit he sows, — for not in a guilty world may the Eternal 
mark the distinction between the righteous and the wicked. 
In that which thou hast seen there was no guilt, no sin. Twin- 
born in purity as in their high ethereal essence, yet, from the 
imperfection of earth, so widely severed their mortal fates, so 
strangely parted, if such things are, is’t marvel that the hymn 
of love, of praise, from lips of man should be so faint and 
weak ? Zephon, thou hast looked on earth ; thou hast marked 
the dealings of our Father with His children. Speak then, 
my brother, oh, speak ! will the song of joy, of adoration, still 
flow from thy lips — still, still canst thou proclaim Him 
Love? ” 

The harps of heaven were stilled. The invisible choirs 
hushed their full tide of song. Darker and darker, for a 
brief space, became the shadow around the youthful seraph, 
and his radiant brow was buried in its shrouding folds. Deep, 
awful was that momentary pause, for it seemed as if the hosts 
of heaven themselves were hushed in sympathy and dread. 

A sudden flood of dazzling effulgence burst through the 
gloomy shade, dispersing it as a thin vapour on either side. 
Beams of living lustre illumined that glorious brow, and in 
liquid music his voice flowed forth. 

“ Shall I be less than mortal — I, who serve my Father 
amidst His chosen choirs, who knew Him, unobstructed bv 
the veil of earth ? Let the full song burst forth ; let tht 
bright seraphim strike the bold harps again ; let the rich 
hymn swell out in deeper glory ; hallelujah to our Father and 
our King ! His ways are dark, but His will is love ! Praise 
Him, ye myriads of angels ; praise Him, ye heaven of heavens; 
proclaim, proclaim Him love ! His ways are pleasantness, 
His paths are peace. Praise Him, ye glorious hosts — halle- 
lujah, He is Love.” 


VIL 

There was rejoicing amidst the heavenly choirs, rejoicing 
amidst the seraph band; for a bright and beautiful spirit, 
whose lot, even on earth, was joy, released from mortal chains, 
had joined their glittering files. Wafted from earth amidst 
strains of glory, lifting up her voice with theirs in thanks- 
giving, and consummating, in the centre of that glorious band| 
the hymn of beauty and of love commenced on earth. 


THE TRIUMPH OP LOVE. 


399 


There was rejoicing amid the angelic choirs, beside the 
shrouding veil, which softened even from their purified orbs 
the transcendant glory of their Father’s throne — rejoicing 
amidst the archangelic choirs; for a bright and beatftiful spirit 
whose earthly doom had been shrouded in the impenetrable 
mists of darkness and woe, was wafted towards them on a 
golden cloud, amid a rich burst of glad triumphant harmony, 
rejoicing ! — for mystery and gloom were removed from a child 
of God, and unsealed for her the secret of his ways. 

There was rejoicing in the angelic hosts, — rejoicing 
through the central choirs, — for a youthful seraph, springing 
up on the bright wings of faith and love, had joined their 
glittering files, and songs of joy and melody encircled him, 
rejoicing! — above, below, within, till each resplendent court 
of heaven darted forth rays of inexpressible brilliance, and 
the whole universe of space, peopled with its myriads of 
angelic and archangelic spirits, sent forth its mighty depths 
of harmony, its thrilling voice of song ; and still, oh still, 
its theme was Love I — Eternal, changeless, unfathomable 
Lo>e I 


THE END. 


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% 




GEACE AGUILAE’S WOEKS. 


HOME INFLUENCE. 
MOTHER’S RECOMPENSE. 
VALE OE CEDARS. 
WOMAN’S FRIENDSHIP. 


DAYS OF BRUCE. 

WOMEN OF ISRAEL. 

HOME SCENES AND HEART 
STUDIES. 


1 vol.y 12mo, Illustrated^ 'price $1, with a Memoir of the Author^ 

HOME INFLUENCE, 

f A TALE FOR MOTHERS AND DAUGHTERS. 

\ By GRACE AGUILAR. 


“ Grace Aguilar wrote and spoke as one inspired ; she condensed and 
spiritualized, and all her thoughts and feelings were steeped in the essence 
of celestial love and truth. To those who really knew Grace Aguilar, all 
eulo riura falls short of her deserts, and she has left a blank in her particular 
walk of literature, which we never expect to see filled up.” — Pilgrimages to 
English Shrines, by Mrs. Hall. 

“A clever and interestinir tale, corresponding well to its name, illustrat- 
ing the silent, constant influence of a wise and atfectionate parent over 
characters the most diverse.” — Christian Lady's Majazi'ne. 

“This interesting volume unquestionably contains many valuable hints 
on domestic education, much powerful writing, and a morcu of vast impor 
tSLUC^.y— Englishwoman's Magazine. 

“It is very pleasant, after reading a book, to speak of it in terms of high 
commendation. The tale before us is an admirable one, and is executed 
with taste and ability. The language is beautiful and appropriate ; the anal- 
ysis of character is skilful and varied. The work ought to be in the hands 
of all who are interested in the proper training of the youthful mind.” — PaX- 
ladium. 

“In reviewing this work, we hardly know what words in the English 
language are strong enouirh to express the admiration we have felt in its 
perusal.”— Chronicle. 

“ The object and end of the writings of Grace Aguilar were to improve 
the heart, and to lead her readers to the consideration of higher motives and 
objects than this world can ever aftbrd.” — Bell's WeeJdy Messenger. 

“ ‘ Home Influence ’ will not be forgotten by any who have perused it.”— 
Critic. 

“A well-known and valuable tale.” — Gentleman's Magazine. 

“ A work which possesses an extraordinary amount of influence to elevate 
the mind and educate the heart, by showing that rectitude and virtue con- 
duce no less to material prosperity, and worldly comfort and happiness, than 
to the satisfaction of the conscience, the approval of the good, and the hope 
and certainty of bliss hereafter.”— ZTerte County Press. 


New York : D. APPLETON & CO. 


GRACE AGUILAR S WORKS. 


THE SEQUEL TO HOME INFLUENCE. 


THE MOTHER’S RECOMPENSE. 


A SEQUEL TO 

I 

“ Home Influence^ a Tale for Mothers and Daughters.'''* 
By GRACE AGUIEAR. 

1 VoL., 12mo. Cloth. $1. With Illustrations. 


“ Grace Aguilar belonged to the school of which Maria Edgewortl 
the foundress. The design of the book is carried out forcibly and constat ..y; 
‘ The Home Influence ’ exercised in earlier years being shown in its active 
germination.” — Atlas. 

” The writings of Grace Aguilar have a charm inseparable from produc- 
tions in which feeling is combined with intellect; they go directly to the 
heart. ‘ Home Influence,’ the deservedly popular story to which this is a 
sequel, admirably teaches tlie lesson implied in its name. In the present 
tale we have the same freshness, earnestness, and zeal — the same spirit of 
devotion, and love of virtue — the same enthusiasm and sincere religion which 
characterized that earlier work. We behold the mother now blessed in the 
love of good and affectionate offspring, who, parents themselves, are, after 
her example, training their children in the way of rectitude and piety.” — 
Morning Chronicle. 

” This beautiful story was completed when the authoress was little above 
the age of nineteen, yet it has the sober sense of middle age. There is no 
age nor sex that will not profit by its perusal, and it W’ill afford as much 
pleasure as profit to the reader.” — Critic. 

“The same kindly spirit, the same warm charity and fervor of devotion 
which breathes in every line of that admirable book, ‘Home Infiuence,’ will 
be found adorning. and inspiring ‘The Mother’s Recompense .’ ” — Morning 
Advertiser. 

“ The good which she (Grace A^ilar) has effected is acknowledged on 
all hands, and it cannot be doubted out that the appearance of this volume 
will increase the usefulness of one who may yet be said to be still speaking 
to the heart and to the affections of human nature .” — BdVs Messenger. 

“It will be found an interesting supplement, not only to the book to 
which it specially relates, but to all the writer’s other works.”— GewWemati’a 
Magazine. 

“‘The Mother’s Recompense’ forms a fitting close to its predecessor, 
‘ Home Influence.’ The results of maternal care are fully developed, its rich 
rewards are set forth, and its lesson and its moral are powerfully enforced.” 
—Morning Post. 

“ We heartily commend this volume ; a better or more useful present to 
a youthful friend or a young wife could not well be selected ,”— County 
Press. 



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